


your ever-beating heart (nothing seems so far)

by ratbandaid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Established Relationship, I'll add more tags as i go, M/M, Married Couple, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, no beta we die like Glenn, try not to look too much in the politics or countries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratbandaid/pseuds/ratbandaid
Summary: There's nothing, and no one, left on this wretched planet but Felix.Well, he sure hopes that’s not the case. Sure, it’s fun being allowed to do whatever you want, but the allure wears off when you realize that there’s no one around to do anything with you or that almost everything around you is contaminated with a shit-ton of radioactive gunk and disease agents.He can’t say for certain that he knows if his loved ones are alive or not. He can’t say for certain that he even knows where they are. All he knows is that if he has to, he’ll traverse this entire, pathetic planet to find them and make sure they’re safe, even if it takes all eternity and even if Felix is a mere second from dying. He’ll search for his friends with his everything he's got.And he’ll search for Sylvain with his dying breath.-----Amidst a major nuclear arms war, Felix begins his long search for Sylvain and his friends. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Sylvain begins his own search for Felix.(ON HIATUS)
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32
Collections: Sylvix Squad Super Stories





	1. as everyone falls around us

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! o/ I'm starting a new story, but I want to really take a second and thank everyone so, so much for reading my last two fics! ;w; I really mean it when I say that I'm stunned by all the attention they've received and that I'm really appreciative of the support. Thank you all so much!!
> 
> This story is a major work in progress. I have a vague idea of what I want to do with this story, and I know that I want to break this up into a few chapters, but I'm still working through how to organize everything. If it seems a little messy, that's why. Please do tell me if you find any typos or things that make this fic hard to follow! I'll do my best to fix them!
> 
> Even so, I hope you enjoy reading this!

It’s hard not to think back to the good times—when the sky wasn’t always this murky, gray color or when the outdoors was synonymous was bright and lively flora and fauna rather than a wasteland of aridness, silence, death. Felix can recall looking outside the window of his small apartment and seeing children playing out in the streets, stray dogs and cats wandering about, birds chasing one another around in the sky. He could practically taste the crisp, fresh air, could hear the laughter and the chatter of the people outside, could feel the vibrations of music blasting or cars honking or his lousy upstairs-neighbors stomping around to the beat of whatever trashy music they were blasting for their weekly party.

And now, there’s nothing.

Nothing but long stretches of deserted, cracked land that seem to go on forever and skeletal corpses; nothing but rusty cars broken down on the side of the road and blackened, decaying stumps where towering trees once grew; nothing but puddles of nuclear waste and the occasional cockroach. Nothing but Felix.

Well, he sure hopes that’s not the case. Sure, it’s fun being allowed to do whatever you want, but the allure wears off when you realize that there’s no one around to do anything with you or that almost everything around you is contaminated with a shit-ton of radioactive gunk and disease agents. And it certainly sucks more knowing that there are people out there that Felix—yes, Felix, _cold, distant,_ and occasionally but not always intentionally _mean Felix Hugo Gautier-Fraldarius_ —actually cares about.

He can’t say for certain that he knows if they’re alive or not. He can’t say for certain that he even knows where they are. All he knows is that if he has to, he’ll traverse this entire, pathetic planet to find them and make sure they’re safe, even if it takes all eternity and even if Felix is a mere second from dying. He’ll search for his friends with everything he’s got.

And he’ll search for Sylvain with his dying breath.

That idiot just _had_ to outdo him and get promoted in the company they work for. He just _had_ to accept that lovely business trip to the other side of the world so that he could make more money to—and Felix quotes—“buy Felix all the things he could ever dream of,” even though Felix insisted that he was perfectly content in their shared apartment. As much as Sylvain claims he had mellowed out since his flirtatious, skirt-chasing years of his teens, he never seemed to outgrow his stupid competitive streak or his ridiculously cheesy, romantic view.

Sylvain was supposed to be coming back within a few months—just a _few more months_ without his goofy husband at his side, at their home—when the bomb dropped.

The sheer force of the nuclear bomb as it struck the ground killed up to a third of the Faerghus’s population; the radiation and the resulting nuclear fallout seemed to wipe out another careless and undeserving third of the population. And even with the pitiful number of people alive, the people running Faerghus thought that retaliation against Shambhala was in their best interest, launching nuclear arms of their own and killing thousands and thousands of people overseas.

It was single-handedly the dumbest, most insensitive, selfish thing Felix has ever witnessed, and he’s had to see Sylvain’s father in all his asshole-ish glory before that motherfucker passed away.

Shambhala and Faerghus have been bickering back-and-forth like children arguing over a spot on the local playground's swingset throughout a majority of Sylvain and Felix’s lives. There were some close calls, some dramatic threats and questionable decisions, but neither side thought to actually start a war. It was what all the parents would tell their terrified children; it was what all the teenagers would insist, as if trying to keep up a false façade of bravado. No one ever thought it would get to this point. And what’s exactly why the bomb seemed to come out of nowhere.

Felix was lucky that he lived rather far from the site of the bomb dropping. It gave him time to gather a few essentials—some nonperishables, some bottled water and clothes, a few swords and daggers from his ever-growing collection ( _see, Sylvain? they did end up being useful)_ , and such—before the radiation flooded into his state and swallowed up his city. By that point, a few government officials and military members had been handing out gas masks and screaming out instructions of where to seek shelter.

It was a truly miserable experience. Screaming, crying children and mourning, desolate mothers. Terrible, pitiful coughs and raw, revolting retching. Pleading and prayers falling upon the gods’ deaf ears. Felix was crammed in this pathetic shelter and swore that every day, a handful of the residents dropped dead. But all Felix could do is sit tight, wait for the nuclear fallout to settle, and try to make sure his friends and his husband were alright.

Only no phones were working. Practically all sources of power in the country had been knocked out, leaving survivors with battery-powered flashlights and old-fashioned torches or candles as sources of light. Water wasn’t running in most areas—and if it was still running for whatever reason, you’d risk getting all sorts of radiation poisoning and diseases just by taking a mere sip. People were starting to go stir crazy. But all Felix could do was sit tight.

As the number of people thinned in the shelter from disease and shitty living conditions, the remaining survivors began to riot, fight one another, kill one another. In their grief, in their desperation, in their frustration, they all seemed to snap, breaking laws and moral codes, trying to do all that they could to ensure that they themselves survived above all else. Stealing from abandoned stores and corpses, killing people to take their things, abandoning beloved pets and children and the elderly—nothing seemed off-limits. No one could stop people from doing this. But all Felix could do was sit tight.

Finally, _finally,_ someone had burst in through the doors of the shelter one day and reported that the levels of radiation were starting to settle. People flooded the streets, and almost instantaneously, more violence erupted. More fighting for water and food, more killing for survival. Felix couldn’t stand by and wait any longer.

He, with his hefty bag of survivalist essentials, snuck out of the shelter he was cooped up in, despite how the government officials that were arguing about whether or not the reports of radiation were trustworthy and despite how a few soldiers tried to convince him to stay. When he stepped out, he got to see firsthand how the bomb had changed everything. The world outside was an absolute and utter wasteland. Nothing seemed green anymore—all the trees and the grass and the animals had practically shriveled up and died within a month, leaving behind blackening and rotting corpses. It was a monochromatic disaster of black ash and grey smoke. Even the skies above seemed to mourn the loss of life, a constant shroud of grey overcast hanging over him. It rained a lot. But no amount of rain could wash away the terrible feeling knotting itself up in his chest.

(Plus, the rain stank and kind of stung anyway so of course it didn’t make him feel any better. It wet all his good clothes and his survivalist backpack, and if he hadn’t wrapped his food up, he’s sure they would have run the risk of getting hit by this murky, disgusting rain.)

So here Felix is, heart broken into a million shreds and his mind spinning with a million thoughts a second. What should he do? What _could_ he do? He’s stuck on this continent, a corroding mass of land with angry, desperate inhabitants, and he has no idea where anyone he loves and trusts is, nevertheless if they’re still alive or not. He has a vague idea of where they are, but there's no guarantee that they're all safe, especially when Faerghus has practically no way to contact any other countries.

However, Felix couldn’t afford to just stand out there in the open forever. He needed to move. He had heard reports that bands of thieves were roaming the lands and that they often picked on travelers who are by themselves, harassing them into giving them everything they have. Felix would never just hand everything over, refuses to just roll over and die like the world wants him to. No, he wanted to survive—and he _would_ survive. And he _will_ find Sylvain, no matter what.

As Felix ponders what to do next, Felix’s hand wanders up to his necklace, a simple sterling chain with his wedding ring hanging from it. He grasps it tightly and lets out a small sigh, rubbing the pad of his finger against where his and Sylvain’s initials are engraved. Just holding onto his ring makes him feel better, like he can feel Sylvain’s warm hand through the gold, like the memory of their wedding and their happiest moments together could wash away the cold dread and terror seizing his heart.

Felix takes one deep breath, looks around; he picks a direction and starts walking.

-

Sylvain has heard about the bomb. It’s impossible not to. As countries argue with one another over whether or not to offer support to this alliance or that, as airlines begin shutting down flights one by one due to the hazardous conditions of the radiation, as regular citizens begin to fret and stock up on their own post-apocalypse gear, it’s _seriously_ impossible not to think of what’s going to become of him. Or worse, what had become of Felix.

Sylvain’s an honest man. He’s not afraid to admit that he called Felix’s number nearly fifteen times in a row when he heard the bomb had dropped in Faerghus, hoping that he’d pick up. He never did. Sylvain nearly had a serious breakdown until he heard that there are still a scant number of survivors and that Dimitri Blaiddyd, his boss and long-time friend, had heard from his sources— _whatever the hell he means by that_ , Sylvain can’t help but to think amidst his relief—that Felix is doing alright.

“He was last seen at a pop-up shelter,” Dimitri is telling him for the hundredth time, slightly exasperated as he tightly grips his pen. With a loud _crack_ , the pen snaps clean in two. Dimitri, unfazed, tosses the pen into the trash can to the right of his desk. Sylvain knows that there are a bunch of other broken pens in there. Dimitri’s worried and stressed about this whole situation too, after all. “There are some people helping civilians get access to food and safe water.”

Sylvain can’t stop pacing in front of Dimitri’s desk though, running his hand through his hair. He swears that he’s going to pace himself right through the fluffy carpet and the neatly-polished tiles of Dimitri’s office and straight into hell. But he needs to release this nervous energy somehow. It’s been literal months since he’s last heard from Felix, and the anxiety crushing his chest is doing terrible things to his mental state. He just wishes that he had gone home so that he could be there with his husband.

Sure, the Leicester Alliance isn’t particularly the safest place on the planet either, considering that there have been bombs going off rather nearby too, but the Alliance tends to stay out of other countries’ wars—plus, the bombs that had gone off nearby weren’t very big nor deadly either. Sylvain just wishes that he could be with Felix. If they were together, they could go through just about any catastrophic disaster together.

And hey, even in the case that they end up dying, at least they’d die together like they'd always promised and joked about.

“We’ll find a way to rescue him somehow,” Dimitri insists, drawing Sylvain out of his thoughts. “But first we’d have to find him. We don’t even know where he is.” His blonde boss, in the middle of reaching for another pen, stops himself and instead folds his fidgety hands atop his desk, staring up at Sylvain. “I’m sure the government is going to offer some help getting the survivors somewhere safe.”

Still, Sylvain can’t bring himself to just sit around and wait for Felix’s corpse to show up at his doorstep, battered and bloodied.

That’s how he finds himself prodding around his own connections to try and secure a flight of some sort to Faerghus. Most of his friends call him crazy, stupid, or a combination of the two. They refuse to let him leave to such a dangerous place. He gets quite the earful.

"No, you idiot,” Dorothea snaps at him over the phone. There’s a small pause, and Sylvain can hear her give a slow sigh. He can practically see her anger fading into a softer expression, something pitiful and sad. “Look. I know you’re worried. Love does that to people. But I’m not letting my friend go over to a nuclear wasteland.”

“No,” Dedue deadpans, crossing his arms. “I'm sorry, Sylvain, but I am not taking you to Faerghus. I do not have the means nor the desire to take you there in the current conditions that it is in.” And then he kindly asks Sylvain to get his head out of the clouds and get out of his office. Sylvain takes no offense since this is Dedue and he manages to make it sound all polite and cool.

“Are you crazy?!” Ashe blurts out, practically blowing Sylvain’s eardrums out over the phone call. Sylvain winces and lowers the volume on his phone as Sylvain hears Dedue calling out to Ashe in the background. Ashe pauses to hear Dedue out before continuing, “I’m sorry, Sylvain—I really am!—but there’s no way any person in their right mind would fly you over to Faerghus. And I don’t think I can—no, I absolutely _won’t!_ —sneak you on a place. Um, also Dedue says to tell you ‘no.’”

“My,” Mercedes muses, “a trip to Faerghus? Now of all times? I’m not sure what you’d like me to do, but I suppose I can try asking around for you, if you’d like. But I really, really wish that you’d stay where you are, Sylvain. It’s much safer that way.”

Most everyone that he called answered similarly like that. He’s starting to grow desperate, and his friends are starting to worry about him, trying to keep a closer eye on him and trying to calm him down. But how can Sylvain focus on his work, treat himself to a warm meal, or even sleep at night when he knows that Felix is out there being subjected to all sorts of poisons and miserable living conditions without him? How can he just forget about Faerghus when the one person who means the world to him is there? How can he just abandon Felix?

Then, he remembers someone that he hasn’t asked yet.

“Sylvain?”

Sylvain grins and gives Claude a little wink. “My man!”

Claude yawns, wipes his eyes, and when he sees that Sylvain is still standing there, not a product of sleep-deprived hallucinations, he just stares at him. “It’s midnight. What do you want?”

"Why do you think I want something? Can’t a guy just hang out with his friend in the middle of the night?” Sylvain shifts uncomfortably under Claude’s flat gaze. “Hey, don’t even try to pretend that you were sleeping. I know you stay up all night doing weird shit,” Sylvain huffs in a weak attempt to defend himself.

“Well, not really. I don’t stay up very late anymore.” Claude smiles at him. “I’ve got a family to care for now. Need to get recharged with some beauty sleep, you know?”

 _Way to rub it in_ , Sylvain thinks bitterly. _Ooh, wow, you’re here with the love of your life, and both of you are happy and safe and_ alive. _How nice to know everything’s alright._

But instead of being a petty asshole to Claude's face, he says, “Right. But Dimitri’s sleeping now, isn’t he?”

Claude nods but raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, but if you keep here too long, Dima’s going to come lumbering down the stairs to look for me.”

Sylvain sighs, taking the hint. “Fine. I’ll keep this short.” Sylvain’s happy and casual façade drops away. “I need you to hook me up with a pilot who can fly me over to Faerghus.”

Claude stares at him and narrows his eyes. “Faerghus. You want to go back to the place that is literally rotting from the inside out,” he says evenly, slowly. "You want to search the entire continent for one person while the aftermath of a nuclear bomb settles in around you."

“Yeah.” Then, as an afterthought, Sylvain adds, “Don’t tell Dima though. He has enough to worry about.”

“You think any of your friends, other than Dima, won’t worry about you? Like Ingrid or Mercedes or anyone? You think _I_ won’t worry about sending you into what’s essentially hell on Fodlan?” Claude gives him a flat look. “I’m not sending you to Faerghus.”

“Even if I pay you a shitload of money?”

“I don’t want your money. My husband is literally your boss. If I want your money, I'll tell him to take it out of your paycheck or something.” Claude heaves a sigh. “So this is what Hilda meant when she said that you were going to come over with some shitty plan, huh?”

“I mean, I haven’t worked out all the kinks, but I’ve got a pretty solid plan.”

Claude raises an eyebrow. He crosses his arms and leans on the doorframe. His expression reads indifference and annoyance, but his eyes seem to glint with genuine curiosity. “Let’s hear it.”

Sylvain sighs. He overstated the truth. He has a very vague idea of what he wants to do, mostly consisting of the phrase 'find Felix and bring him to safety.' But he knows Claude—has known him since they were to school together. He thinks if he can pull this off, if he plays his cards right, he can manage to convince Claude 

“I need to go back to Faerghus so I can find Felix,” he starts, cautiously. “Dimitri said that he’s still alive, but I can’t really believe him until I see for myself. He said that we could rescue Felix is we knew where he was, and I was thinking that if I could go and find Felix, we could bring him back.”

“And how would we find you?”

“I could try and bring Felix to Sreng. Sreng hasn’t been hit with anything yet so they’d still have electricity. And then you could bring someone over to pick us up.”

Claude sighs. “You realize how far Sreng is from where you live? You’d have to walk for days on end, pal.”

“Okay? And?”

Claude shakes his head. “Sylvain, I get that you’re really worried about Felix, but trust me when I tell you that he can hold his own. He’s probably doing just fine. The bomb didn’t hit where you live so he has a pretty high chance of survival, and he’s always been an outdoorsy guy—he knows how to take care of himself.” Claude reaches forward and claps a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. “So keep your head on and just take things easy, alright? Calm down a bit. Try not to be all doom and gloom. Try not to be a Hubert.” Claude cracks a smile at the mention of one of their former classmates.

Sylvain feels his only chance to save Felix, to get someone to help him and his poor husband, starting to slip out of his hands. “What if he’s not?” Sylvain blurts. “What if he’s out there suffering? You think I should just sit here and wait for someone to find his body? Claude, _please,_ I'm begging you. You have to help me get to Faerghus so I can help him.”

Claude’s smile fades. “Alright. Fine. Say that Felix isn’t doing so hot—worst case scenario, he’s already dead.” Claude ignores how Sylvain freezes, how he almost reels back in horror. “Then what good what would it do anyone if you went out there? All you’d do is die of radiation poisoning. And I don’t think Felix would want that.” His expression softens slightly. “I get that you’re upset. I really do, but think this true. This isn’t a smart idea. This isn’t a good idea. It’s essentially a wild goose chase that could just end in some pointless suicide. Don’t be a martyr.”

Sylvain feels a heavy weight settle in his chest as he realizes that Claude won’t help him sneak onto any of the few ships or planes headed to Faerghus with emergency aid—that he’s damned to stay here without Felix and to stay here with his guilt and terror. Just thinking about a life without Felix makes his body go cold; just thinking about Felix dying out in a desolate wasteland, starving and dying of thirst or diseases while crying out for Sylvain twists his heart and chokes him up.

Oh Goddess, Sylvain thinks he’s going to have another mental breakdown for the hundredth time this week.

Claude seems to sense Sylvain’s distress. “Sylvain. Hey. Stay with me.” He grabs Sylvain’s forearm. “Are you listening?”

Sylvain wrenches his arm away from Claude. “I hear you,” he says coldly. “I hear you loud and clear.” He sticks his hands in his pocket. “Goodnight, Claude.” He turns on his heel and leaves, despite how Claude calls after him.

Claude just stands at his doorway and watches as Sylvain climbs into his car, slams the door shut, and drives rather recklessly out his driveway and into the street. Claude watches as the backlights on his car slowly get smaller and smaller as he drives off, until Claude can no longer see him anymore. A pair of arms wrap around Claude’s waist from behind, and a scent of familiar shampoo wafts towards Claude as his husband hooks his chin over his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” Dimitri asks, his voice low and heavy with sleep. He buries his face in the nook between Claude’s neck and shoulder. Claude smiles a little when he can feel Dimitri nuzzle him a little, when he can feel Dimitri taking in a small sniff like he’s trying to smell him without Claude noticing.

Claude cards a hand through Dimitri’s soft, blonde hair and takes a step back so that he can shut the front door. “It’s Sylvain.”

Dimitri peeks a blue eye open in shock at Claude. “Sylvain? What about him?”

Claude sighs. “He wants to go to Faerghus.” He turns to face Dimitri, expression grim. “And something tells me that he isn’t going to let anything stop him from going."


	2. i know it just seems far (but just be where you are)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix continues his long trek "home" and finds an unexpected surprise. Sylvain's attempts to sneak into Faerghus go awry.

It’s been roughly two or three weeks since the bomb went off.

These last couple of days, when Felix was wandering around by himself to try and find a way out of this hellhole, have been relatively calm—well, actually Felix isn’t exactly sure how many “days” have passed considering that the sun is almost completely blocked out by this persistent dreariness and smog lingering about. He’s really going off his own sleep-wake cycle, and even that’s starting to get messed up since he’s having trouble sleeping.

He wishes he had a map of some sort to help him figure out where he’s wandered off to. He knew this city like the back of his hand before; now, with all the melted and decimated signs and buildings, Felix can hardly tell if he’s even at the city of his apartment anymore. He can’t even tell if he’s made any progress. The land looks the same everywhere he goes, all blackened grass and cracked earth, and it feels like he’s been walking for miles and miles in a straight line, only to end up right back where he started. It’s unbearably frustrating.

At the very least, he hasn’t had any run-ins with troublemakers. He hasn’t had a reason to use his swords or that one half-loaded pistol he picked up off the ground near a busted police car. That’s always a good thing. Plus, he’s rationed his food and water, including a handful of food that he stole from that shelter he was staying at, enough so that he could last a bit, even though he’s starting to feel constantly fatigued and thirsty.

How is he going to make it to the Leicester Alliance territories, where Sylvain is supposed to be staying? He’d have to walk forever and then somehow manage to cross a literal ocean to get there, whether by boat or by plane. Both seem extremely implausible.

Right now, Felix has taken shelter in an abandoned building, or at least what’s left of it, considering that some portion of it has been shot up and demolished by people looting buildings for anything remotely of value. It started raining pretty hard a while back so he figured he could use this time to relax in a relatively safe shelter and try to get his bearings on his new environment.

 _Nothing very noteworthy about this town,_ Felix thinks to himself as he peeks out of the windows. _Looks just like every other city that got blown up thus far._ He then wanders around the building. _This place is pretty empty, but it looks like it was an office building of some sort. Lots of files and papers on the ground. A few messy cubicles. A printer, starting to get dusty. A fridge with someone's rotting lunch…_

After he explores the place and finds nothing particularly useful, Felix slumps down against one of the walls of the building, in an area somewhat concealed from the main entrance, in case he gets ambushed. He’ll just wait out the rain before trying to cover more distance.

He isn’t too sleepy, and he just ate a little while ago so that leaves him with very little to do, other than to sit and ruminate in his own thoughts while listening to the rain. With his back pressed against the wall, Felix draws his knees up to his chest and rests his forearms against the tops of them. He feels like a little kid again, curled up in a ball and trying to hide away from this disaster. He wishes that he could have the problems that he had as a child, though. Getting into an argument with Ingrid or losing a sparring match against Glenn was nothing to this nightmare.

He finds himself shutting his eyes, thinking back to the better days. Warm thoughts of Sylvain being silly. Nostalgic memories of any miscommunications between them and how stupid they both felt afterwards, smiling and getting into little, playful bouts of wrestling until they ended up cuddling against one another. Pleasant feelings rustling in his chest from when he was with his friends, watching their faces light up as they joyously laugh. He misses it all.

Before he knows it, amongst all his sentimentality, he’s starting to nod off, his eyelids drooping down as his head bobs. A sudden noise—the sound of shuffling feet across the carpeted floor—draws him from his thoughts. His head whips up as his eyes scan his surroundings. He reaches in his bag to take out a weapon, just in case. He doesn’t see anything in particular, doesn’t hear that noise again, but he doesn’t want to risk some sort of ambush, doesn’t want to get robbed of his belongings nor his life. He grips his sword tightly and keeps his eyes glued on the desks and cubicles around him.

It’s completely silent again, save for the pitter-patter of the rain outside.

Felix lets out a small sigh. Maybe he isn’t as safe as he had thought. He’d better get a move on then, if he wants to ensure that he stays out of trouble. It just sucks that he’s going to have to wander about in the rain—and he’s going to get his socks all cold and soggy, and the stuff in his bag might get soaked if his bag isn’t shut right… What a hassle. Even so, he supposes that he would prefer a safer hideout, rather than being locked inside this building with a potential thief.

He lugs his backpack over his shoulder and gives a small sigh. Just as he starts to make his way out of the building, he hears something else. It’s barely audible, like a whisper upon the wind, but he hears it nonetheless.

“Felix?”

-

For the past couple of days, Sylvain has been stocking up on things he thinks he might need. He’s bought a bunch of bottled water and canned foods; he packed away a first aid kit; he’s sorted out his clothes. He’s even managed to hunt down and buy a gas mask from his local supermarket—the last one in that store, since the rest were snatched up by some rather paranoid individuals, which was fair. All that’s left, really, is to find a way over to Faerghus. And with the Adrestian Empire sending support in the form of aircrafts and ships carrying rations to check up on the Leicester Alliance and the more intact parts of Faerghus, Sylvain thinks that he has a chance of sneaking onto any vehicle headed out.

He’s feeling good about it. He’s got all his stuff packed away and ready for travel, and he’s written a few letters explaining his plan in case his friends worry about him. Speaking of which, his friends are persistently trying to convince him not to go and are trying to distract him.

His friends all have an impromptu party at Sylvain’s apartment, coming right around six in the evening, bearing all sorts of food and even some games. Sylvain could only watch, dumbfounded, as Ingrid and Dorothea practically swat his belongings off his kitchen table; as Dimitri and Dedue help Annette and Mercedes set out a large tray of home-cooked treats that were clearly created by Mercedes and Dedue; as Ashe and Marianne hand out some napkins, cups, and forks; as Claude and Hilda—well, they’re not really doing much other than sitting on Sylvain’s couch and talking, but they’re there nonetheless.

“What are you doing here?” Sylvain finally asks, shutting the door behind him when he realizes that his visitors are there to stay.

“We’re hanging out with our friend!” Annette pipes up, flashing him a darling smile. “I mean, I haven’t seen you in a while—and nor have a bunch of us!”

Sylvain crosses his arms. Lifts an eyebrow. Annette shifts, her smile faltering, as she looks over to Mercedes.

“We were worried about you,” she tells him, a little more honestly, walking over and gently taking his hand. “You’ve shut yourself away in this lonely apartment, and Dimitri told me that you haven’t been saying much to him at work either.”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, walking over and standing in front him. She crosses her arms, but she doesn’t particularly look cross with him. In fact, she looks sympathetic—pitying, almost. “You need to take your mind off these things.” Her voice goes a touch softer, gentler. Sylvain feels his skin crawl with the tiniest sparks of anger at her pity.

Before Ingrid can say anything about Sylvain’s intentions—he can already see the scornful words forming on her lips—Hilda pipes up from the couch. “Spending time with friends is a really good way to get your mind off things, you know. That’s why we’re here!”

“I brought some games!” Ashe chimes in, holding up a box of Jenga blocks. “I also have cards.”

Sylvain sighs. “Guys, it’s really nice of you all to come and try to cheer me up, but I feel fine.” He ignores the way Ingrid’s sympathetic look becomes frustrated, ignores how Mercedes gives him a sad look, ignores how Dorothea mutters something under her breath undoubtedly about how Sylvain is _not_ fine. “Sorry I’ve caused you all so much trouble,” he continues, “but I’m feeling better. You don’t have to stay here.”

Sylvain motions to the door. “You’re free to leave now.”

No one moves. No one even says a thing. It feels like a million years have slowly dragged past them—a million years that Sylvain could have used to sneak out of his dinky little apartment and into one of the docks, onto a boat, over to Faerghus.

Then, a soft voice cuts through the silence.

“Please don’t go to Faerghus.”

Everyone looks over to Marianne, whose eyes were once focused on the carpet and are now boldly locked on Sylvain's.

“Sylvain,” she says, a little louder now, “don’t you see how dangerous your idea is?” Her eyebrows are drawn together. “We get it. We understand you’re upset and concerned, but there’s surely got to be a better, safer way to approach this.” Hilda gently places her hand over Marianne’s. “So, please. Just reconsider this.”

Sylvain stares at her. A swirl of hideous emotions riots through his body. Frustration—at being so “understood” but not enough to gain support for his endeavors. Jealousy—at how nearly everyone in the room has a spouse safely alongside them and at how Felix isn’t there with him too. Grief—at the thought that he’ll be locked on this horrible continent without the love of his life, at the thought that Felix has already died a horrible death, at the thought that he’s sitting here, twiddling his thumbs while Felix is undoubtedly suffering and worrying about him.

Before Sylvain can speak his mind, a few others, inspired by Marianne, start to plead at them in their own ways, asking him to stay.

“Sylvain, you’re so fucking stupid!” Ingrid lashes out, balling her trembling hands into fists at her sides. “You’re so fucking stupid and selfish! How can you ask us to support you going to a nuclear wasteland?! We love you, and we love Felix, but can’t you see that we want to keep you safe?” Her voice warbles as her eyes fill with tears. “We can’t lose both of you,” she says sharply, but her voice is quieting down. “I can’t lose both of you.”

Ingrid storms out of the room, pushing past Sylvain. She slams the front door behind her, and the resounding bang feels hard enough to rattle Sylvain’s skeleton.

Dorothea promptly stands up and steps in front of Sylvain. “Don’t be a martyr,” she says, a withering look in her eyes. “Don’t sacrifice yourself for someone you aren’t even sure is alive.” Sylvain winces at the implication and feels his face contort into a snarl. “Bad things happen and they fucking suck,” she says quietly as she moves past him and towards the door, “but with time and support, you can overcome them, forget them, grow past them. And we’re always here for you.”

“Felix _isn’t_ dead!” Sylvain shouts after her as Dorothea quietly shuts the door behind herself to go and comfort her wife. Sylvain whips around to face his remaining friends. “If you think telling me to forget about Felix is going to change my mind, you’re dead wrong.”

“No one is asking you of such a thing,” Dimitri says.

“We would never ask you to forget Felix,” Mercedes adds in that soft voice of hers, patting his hand in what he assumes is supposed to be a soothing manner. “He is always in our thoughts too, you know. Along with others who were in Faerghus at the time of the impact.”

"Get out.” Sylvain shakes his head. “Get out. All of you. I don’t want to hear a fucking word from any of you.” He turns his gaze to Marianne. To her credit, she doesn’t avert her gaze, doesn’t turn away from his vicious glare. “None of you get it. You say you do, but you don’t. You just _don’t_.”

Mercedes pulls him into a hug, and Sylvain wriggles hard, thrashes violently but not enough to hurt her. Annette practically flies in from across the room and joins the hug. Before he knows it, Sylvain is engulfed in this massive hug, and he’s unable to do much about it other than to melt into the embrace, his heart sharply splitting in half. What can he do about this predicament? How can he fly over to Felix and be there for him when he’s being weighed down by his friends, when he’s being kept in one place?

Tears of anger at those terrible Agarthans, at the world, at himself, bubble up and blur his vision. He tries to will away the tears, but when a few inevitably slip from his eyes, he just gives in and lets it happen, lets his friends baby him, lets them try to feed him the treats they made and try to distract him from the persistent pain in his chest.

Needless to say, the rest of the night is awkward. No one seems to be in the mood to eat, and Ashe’s games go untouched. Ingrid and Dorothea do return eventually, and they apologize to Sylvain. And even though he understands their intentions and their thoughts in the deepest parts of his heart—even though he understands Ingrid’s grief and Dorothea’s rather cynical look on life—Sylvain isn’t entirely ready to forgive them.

At the end of this catastrophically awkward party, his friends check in on Sylvain’s mental state—they ask if he wants them to stay with them, if he feels well enough to keep himself safe, if he wants to talk about anything. Sylvain shuts them all down and sends them home. Annette, Ashe, Ingrid, and Marianne all pull him in for one last, tight hug before they go; he hugs them back. Dorothea, Hilda, and Mercedes each give him a kiss on the cheek, Hilda ending hers with a little pat and a reassuring smile; he hugs them too. Dedue clasps Sylvain’s shoulder and gives him a grim look, a small nod; _I’m here for you_ , goes unspoken but is understood.

Everyone can’t help but to feel like it’s the last time that they’ll see Sylvain. A feeling of finality, of sadness, of uncertainty lingers in the air and crawls under their skin. It feels like a final goodbye. Sylvain can’t help but to feel the say way.

Claude and Dimitri are the last ones left and seem hesitant to leave.

“Are you sure you’ll take care of yourself?” Dimitri asks tentatively, reminding Sylvain of when the blonde man was younger and more earnest.

Sylvain nods.

Claude eyes Sylvain up and down. Frowns. “You sure?”

Sylvain heaves another sigh. “I’m fine. I’ll take care of myself. I’ll stay here.” Sylvain is just saying whatever he thinks will make the two go away. “Just go home. Good night. Take care of yourselves.”

Eventually, they do leave, and Sylvain’s phone is bombarded with all sorts of texts from his friends, despite just having seen him. He can’t bring himself to look at them.

He stands there at the door of his apartment, staring at the immaculate white paint. His thoughts seem to race all around the place yet stay silent. He feels oddly numb.

Should Sylvain believe his more pessimistic friends? Should he believe that Felix has died and try his best to move on? Should he abandon his husband, the man he’s loved since they were children?

Sylvain can’t bring himself in good faith to do that, nevertheless even _think_ that. Felix is alive. He’s sure of it. Sylvain won’t believe that Felix is dead unless he finds his corpse, and he’ll search the entire world for Felix for the rest of his life if he has to. His friends mean well and just want him to be safe so they don’t have to worry about losing another friend, and he respects that, appreciates that; but there’s no way that he can just sit here and wait around, mourning someone’s death when he doesn’t even know for sure that he’s dead.

So now, Sylvain is getting his last night of sleep before he attempts to get himself into one of those support ships. He’s prepared. He’s going to find Felix, whether it kills him or not.

He feels like he has a pretty good chance of carrying out his half-baked plan. That is, before Agarthans decide to attack Adrestia and the Leicester Alliance at the same time, launching a bomb into the Leicester Alliance and sending some troops into Adrestia.

His city, despite being near the capital, hadn’t been directly hit, but there were official government warnings calling for an immediate evacuation in his area. However, a major port had been destroyed, and ship are now extremely hesitant about docking there. Adrestia seems to be faring alright, even defeating many of the Agarthan troops under the command of Prime Minister Ferdinand von Aegir, but they’ve stopped sending ships and planes because they’re preoccupied with defending their own land and people.

That means Sylvain’s plan is starting to fall apart at the seams.

Frustration and panic seep into his veins; anger and despair flood his senses. Sure, he has enough supplies to last him through the disaster happening in the Leicester Alliance right now, but he worries more about Felix than anything else.

This is it. There’s nothing that he can do. There's no way he can leave this awful continent and search for his lover. There's nothing he can do.

Nothing. Nothing. _Nothing._


	3. wherever you go, i'll be there for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix reunites with another. Sylvain perseveres on his search for a way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I write this, the more fucky the geography gets so please don't look too much into where the countries are located and stuff in canon because it doesn't really fit this fic ^^;;

It’s quite funny how the world works. One second, everything will seem like a catastrophe—you’ll literally be thrown into an apocalyptic world on your own while your husband is on the other side of the world, possibly dead, possibly mourning. And the next second, as if the world is atoning for its cruelty, things will seem to turn around. The gods and goddesses will just throw you a bone, like a half-assed apology.

Felix supposes that’s exactly how he finds himself in this situation.

Out of the billions of people living on the planet, he finds himself staring at his old friend, Bernadetta von Varley, standing before him while the world around them burns and rots and _dies._

Bernadetta, with her hair a mess and her clothes all ragged and dirtied, launches herself into Felix’s arms, clinging to him tightly and trembling. Felix quietly holds her, rubbing reassuring circles against her back as she buries her face in his chest and lets out soft sobs.

“I-I thought that—that I-I was all a-alone,” she gushes, her voice just as shaky as when she was younger. “There’s no one around and—and…” She trails off.

“It’s okay,” Felix tells her. He’s not the best at comforting—he’s nothing compared to Mercedes or Annette, and he's absolutely pathetic when he compares himself to Sylvain and how good he is at soothing Felix—but he’s certainly improved since he’s last seen Bernadetta, he thinks. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Bernadetta, sniffling, just nods and clings to him for a little longer.

“What are you doing here?” Felix asks her when she composes herself enough to let go of him. “I thought you were in Adrestia.” After all, that’s where she lives.

Bernadetta gives him a small smile. “Well, Linhardt and Caspar were taking a trip to Faerghus, and they invited me to come along because I wanted new experiences to write about.” Her smile quickly fades, and a stormy look settles in her expression, her eyebrows drawn together and her lips quirking down in a concerned frown. “But I don’t know where they went off to. It was—it was so scary. When the bomb hit, we got separated, but I heard them calling out for me. I don’t know where they went… Oh, I hope they’re alright…”

Felix nods along solemnly. “I’m sure they’re fine.” It’s half a lie, half his genuine thoughts. Caspar is capable and enjoys the outdoors as much as Felix does. He’s probably doing fine—and assuming that Linhardt is with Caspar, Linhardt should be fine too. However, there’s always just the possibility that they were just unfortunate and...

“What about you?” Bernadetta asks gingerly. “Why are you out here? Where’s Sylvain?”

Felix presses his lips into a thin line at the mention of his husband’s name. “Sylvain’s in the Alliance. For a business trip,” he manages to say, keeping down the hurt and angsty energy bubbling in his chest. “And I’m trying to get over there.” He pauses. "Well? What're you going to do now? Are you going somewhere?”

"Huh?” Bernadetta’s eyes widen.

“You can’t just stay here forever, you know.” At Bernadetta’s sheepish silence, Felix crosses his arms. “How long have you stayed here?”

“I-I can’t go out there,” she blurts out. “It’s so _scary!_ ” She shakes her head fervently. “I know there’s _awful_ people out there, and there’s no way someone like _me_ can survive out there! Nuh-uh! Not Bernie!”

Ah. There’s the Bernie that Felix had known when they went to school together. Felix can’t help but to think that despite how much she’s grown up, there’s still that anxiety-riddled part of her, always clinging to the safety blanket of concealment. She’s matured so much—she’s stopped stuttering and screaming, and she’s been more open to trying new experiences and talking with strangers and _leaving her room_. And all of that progress, all those years of growth, seems to have been destroyed within a few mere weeks.

"You know how I know there are terrible people out there?” she asks, looking more upset than scared now. “Because a group of assholes broke into here and looted it for all it’s worth! They took all the food and spare clothes I gathered!”

“Yeah, I saw.” Felix shrugs. “It looks pretty beat-up from the outside.”

Bernadetta shakes her head. “I only survived because I hid up in the vents, and even that wasn’t enough to stop them from wanting to chase after me!” Her shoulders hitch up to her ears as she averts her gaze. “People are awful. They’re so heartless.” She shuts her eyes tightly. “That’s why it’s safer if I stay here.”

Felix lets his posture relax a little, and he slowly reaches out a hand, setting it against her shoulder. She flinches but relaxes, looking up at Felix.

"Bernie,” he says calmly, “there are a lot of shitty people out there, but you can’t just stay here forever. What about Linhardt and Caspar? Don’t you want to try and find them? Don’t you want to at least _try_ and make it back to Adrestia?”

Bernadetta stays silent.

“You can tell me all you want that you’re content staying here and that you can’t survive out there, but I’ve seen you do some great things. You’re strong. You won’t just die without a fight.” He lets his lip quirk up into a smirk. “I’m sure you caused some hell for those bandits. At least a little bit.”

Bernadetta smiles a little, but the crease between her eyebrows stays.

And before Felix knows it, he’s saying, “Come with me, Bernadetta. We’ll get out of here together. We’ll find Linhardt, Caspar, and Sylvain.”

She stares at him wide-eyed and mouth agape. Felix is shocked himself.

He knows that realistically, it’d be better for him to wander off on his own. He could conserve his resources and his energy by looking after just himself. It’d be easier to move around and get enough food or water, and he wouldn’t have to constantly check up on others. However, there’s just the smallest part of him that wants to look after Bernadetta.

In all honesty, he sees something of his younger self in her. He had been quite the clingy crybaby, terrified of new experiences and being forced to meet new people. He always had Glenn or Sylvain’s hand in his while he cowered behind them, staring out from behind his “protective wall” before him. Bernadetta, in all her terror and skittishness, just reminds Felix of himself, and now he sees why Glenn had always doted on him, had always put up with his dumb requests and whining and whimpering. He feels for poor Bernadetta, wants her to be safe and happy, wants to prevent her from feeling so desolate. 

Geez. Maybe Sylvain was right when he told Felix that he’s been getting soft in his older years.

“But I can’t really offer you anything,” she tells him. “I don’t have any food. I don’t even have a weapon to defend myself.”

Felix shakes his head. “I have a few spares you can borrow. And we’ll just have to look for food.” When Bernadetta still remains rather unconvinced, he adds, “Don’t you want to look for Linhardt and Caspar? We can find them and try to get out together.”

Her expression brightens the slightest bit, but after a beat, Bernadetta averts her gaze, suddenly looking more solemn. “Would that really be okay with you? I don’t want to drag you down or anything.”

“You won’t.” Felix sets his backpack on the ground and rifles through it until he takes out a sheathed dagger. He hands it to Bernadetta, who gawks at it. He huffs a little and moves towards the exit of the building. “So are you coming or what?” He zips up his bag and tosses it over his shoulder.

She smiles at him. “I’m coming.”

-

“I’m so glad you’re okay.”

It’s the phrase he’s been hearing a lot since the bomb dropped in the Leicester Alliance territory. Sylvain’s friends, who had been relocated along with him to their temporary homes, keep telling him that they’re happy to see that bomb hasn’t affected him too drastically, but he’s pretty sure that they’re just trying to say that they’re glad he hasn’t left for Faerghus.

The place they’ve been temporarily relocated to—to put it bluntly, as Felix would—sucks ass. There’s way too many people in such close quarters, and there’s not enough food or water for everyone. It’s unsanitary, loud, crowded, and it’s a waste of time. Sylvain can’t stand it here, but it’s hard for him to escape the wary eyes of his friends.

Ingrid catches him trying to sneak out of the makeshift homes one night, and after that, Sylvain finds that there’s always one of his friends sitting outside his tent. They catch him and dissuade him from leaving—or, if they’re too soft to scold Sylvain themselves, they’ll usually go fetch Ingrid and let her tear him a new one. It makes it impossible for Sylvain to find a way out.

After that, Sylvain moves his plans all to the morning and the afternoons. He pokes around a bit in the makeshift camp. He sweet-talks his way through soldiers around town, trying to seem like he’s putting up casual conversation. He ignores the gross feeling that envelops him when he has to suck up to them to get information about Adrestia and Faerghus, a feeling similar to guilt and self-loathing that haunts him and reminds him of his younger days of relentless skirt-chasing and internalized homophobia. He manages to get some valuable information out of a few soldiers, though.

Rumor has it that Adrestia still has a handful of ships docked at the Alliance, and they’re leaving very soon. They seem to be headed to Faerghus briefly before heading back to the Empire to support the ongoing war between the Empire and the Agarthans. They’re said to be leaving in less than a day. And they’re denying any civilians access to the ships. _If you’re not an Adrestian soldier,_ one soldier had told him _, then you’re not allowed on the ships. That’s the rules._

But Sylvain’s always been good at breaking rules, has always been a crafty little bastard.

So Sylvain packs all his belongings the day of departure and leaves the makeshift town without anyone noticing. He sneaks around the dock where the soldiers had off-handedly mentioned the ships were located, and he spots soldiers filing onto the ship, carrying crates and boxes of supplies. At the top of the ramp leading up into the ship, two soldiers give the passengers a once-over and either let them in or deny them access.

Sylvain knows he has to get on one of these ships if it’s the last thing he does. He doesn’t care about the consequences. He needs to get to Faerghus; he needs to get to Felix. That’s where his home is; that’s where his heart is. He’s never felt this incomplete before; he’s never felt like something was so unattainable, so far away. He can’t bear to be away from his husband any longer.

So Sylvain does what any rational human would do and waits to find one lone soldier before grabbing him and knocking him out, slamming his head to the ground. When the poor, unsuspecting soldier’s body stills, Sylvain switches into his clothes and pockets his weapon before taking his backpack with him up onto the ship. He feels bad for the guy, abandoning his unconscious body where bombs may or may not drop again, and he feels scared that he might get caught and tried for some sort

He tries not to draw too much attention to himself, but he tries not to seem suspicious, nodding back at any soldier who tosses him a grin or a nod of acknowledgment.

The walk up the ramp is horribly suspenseful. With every little step, Sylvain feels his traitorous heart rate jump up with anxiety. He might be recognized, might be thrown off the ship, might get punished. He might lose his chance. But with every step, he knows he’s getting closer and closer to Felix. So he trudges on, inches forward. Left foot, right foot, left foot…

When he gets to the top, the soldiers doing inspections hardly spare him a second glance, nodding at him and letting him through. Sylvain grins at them and boards the ship, following the line in front of him to store his belongings in the storage unit. Afterwards, he sits and waits, staring out at the dark sea before them.

And he waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Until the ship finally, _finally_ starts to move. The ship bounces and rumbles as the engine starts up, and it slowly starts to cut through the raucous waves of the ocean until it steadily sails. The soldiers around him clamor and share stories with one another, as if nothing in the world is wrong—as if they’re just going on a cruise and the world around them isn’t absolutely decaying and rotting. Sylvain can’t be as oblivious as them, can’t escape the terrible reality that is their life.

Sylvain focuses his gaze out on the horizon, on the all-encompassing smog lying heavily on the ocean’s surface, on the hopes that he can see the coastline of Faerghus soon.


	4. my moon, oh, my moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Bernadetta begin their journey together to find Linhardt and Caspar. Sylvain runs into some familiar faces.

The storm hadn’t taken very long to let up. As soon as the constant downpour died down into a light drizzle, Felix threw on a coat, tossed Bernadetta one of his old rain ponchos, and led them out of the building. Felix isn’t quite sure how he’s going to go about this, especially considering that this country is _huge_ —there’s no way that he and Bernadetta can just waltz through Faerghus and hope to find two individuals. He supposes that he can say the same about his own goal to find Sylvain, but at least he has a rough idea of where Sylvain is—in the Leicester Alliance, near the Riegan territory.

Even so, he feels like he’s made a promise to Bernadetta and intends to see it through to the best of his ability. He’s sure that she’s just as determined and desperate to see her friends, alive and well, as Felix is. He isn’t sure that he wants to find them as much as he wants to find Sylvain, but her desires are still important and are still a pressing matter for her, weighing down on her chest.

They walk for a while, mostly in silence. Bernadetta seems to be too on-edge for casual conversation, her wide eyes darting about as she practically clings to Felix’s coat sleeve. Felix doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t particularly mind.

The duo are quite fortunate in that they don’t run into any of those heartless bandits, willing to kill anything and anyone to ensure their own survival. However, they’re unfortunate in that they’re unable to find a place to stay. The rain has stopped, but they’ve wandered out into what seems like an abandoned desert.

There are no crumbling buildings, no decaying trees, no melting signs pointing them towards the nearest city. It’s like it’s Felix and Bernadetta, alone in the middle of nowhere. It doesn’t help that the smog created from the bomb still hasn’t quite lifted off the earth yet, giving the earth an eerie aura.

“Where are we?” Bernadetta asks quietly, looking around.

Felix shrugs. “Don’t know.” He keeps walking.

Bernadetta scampers after him. “Is this really a good idea? I mean, if we turn back, we can probably make it back to that building and stay there, you know? I mean, um…”

Felix casts her a flat, sidelong glance that promptly shuts her up. “We can’t turn back. This fog makes it impossible to see where we even came from.”

“Well, we can always just turn around—like a full one-eighty degrees—and walk that way?”

“That’d work.” Bernadetta brightens a little. “Assuming we walked in a completely straight line. Which we didn’t.” Bernadetta droops.

“Well, what are we going to do? We can’t just keep walking forever. It’s going to get darker and—and that’s probably when all the b-baddies strike.” Her voice wobbles as a look of terror quickly takes over her expression.

“We’ll be fine. Trust me.” Felix looks up at the sky. Bernadetta was right. The sky, though the changes were awfully hard to see, would get drastically darker by nighttime, and that’s when bandits and brigands would wander about, preying on vulnerable travelers who are just trying to survive Faerghus. “I have a flashlight.” And Felix keeps walking.

“Oh, um okay, I guess—wait, what?! Th-that’s all you’re going to say?!” Bernadetta squawks.

"There’s really not much we can do. We just have to keep moving until we find a safe place to stay.” Felix flicks his gaze over to Bernadetta. “Unless you’d rather camp out here, in the middle of nowhere. Out in the open."

“Nope! Nope, nope. Let’s keep going.”

Felix suppresses a small smile and continues leading them forward.

To their luck, they find a series of rock formations—and a cave big enough for them to squeeze into. Felix tosses his heavy backpack on the ground, rolls his aching shoulders, and starts taking things out of his bag. Bernadetta curiously watches as Felix takes out a can of peaches, stabs it with his knife to pry off the top, and hands it to her alongside a plastic fork.

“Dinner.”

Bernadetta smiles. “O-oh! Thank you.” She takes the peaches and happily starts to eat, humming at the first mouthful. “It’s been so long since I’ve had anything good to eat.”

“What’d you even eat in that building?”

“Well, whatever was in the fridge and the pantries in the kitchen area. There were a lot of stuff before those bandits came by.”

“So what about after the bandits came?”

Bernadetta pointedly drops her gaze, looking at the peaches and prodding at them with her fork “There was still some food left,” she tells him. “But, um, it was starting to rot but… But I was so hungry and… It’s better than nothing, right?”

Felix frowns but says nothing, nudging a small bottle of water Bernadetta’s way. She takes it with a smile.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asks. “Please don’t tell me I’m taking up all your food.”

“Not hungry.” Felix pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his forearms on the tops of them. He looks out of the cave, staring out at the silent badlands before them.

“Are you sure? Skipping meals doesn’t sound very healthy.”

“And eating rotting food doesn’t either.” He gives a small huff. “So just eat. Don’t worry about me.”

Felix is telling the truth. He’s not hungry. His appetite has drastically shrunk since he’s starting this journey. He thinks his body is starting to adjust to Felix’s schedule and his limited food sources. Plus, it’s just hard for him to eat when his mind always wanders elsewhere—when his heart and mind wander across the ocean and try so desperately to meet Sylvain’s, always to no avail. He wonders what Sylvain is doing.

“I miss the stars.”

At her voice, Felix looks over at Bernadetta. She sits with her legs crossed and the can of peaches cupped in her hands. Her gaze is trained up on the dark, dark sky. There’s nothing but a sea of darkness above them, save for the faintest light that can just barely be seen—the moon.

“I always liked the night sky,” Bernadetta continues. “It was always so pretty and calming. Like a steady presence, you know? Now… There’s nothing there. Just darkness and smoke.”

As much as he hates thinking back to the past, being stuck on a time that he can’t return to, Felix can’t help but to share her sentiments. He misses the stars too, misses how Sylvain would always wax poetic about how Felix had eyes that sparkled like the stars and how Felix was the moon to his sun and so on. He misses how the stars were always dancing up in the sky besides the moon, always caught up in their own lovely waltz while Sylvain and Felix waltzed in their apartment’s kitchen themselves, stifling laughter as they playfully stepped on one another’s toes and swayed to whatever cheesy music Sylvain had thrown on. He misses the stars and the moon and—

Before he knows it, he’s speaking. “I miss the sun,” he tells her, but he’s really thinking _I miss_ my _sun_. She cocks her head, looking over at him, but he pointedly keeps his gaze trained up at the sky. “This stupid rainy, foggy weather sucks ass,” he elaborates crudely.

She smiles a little. “Oh. Well, I quite like the rain.”

“You’re going to grow to hate it now that you can’t hide in that building anymore.” Felix sighs. “Walking around in the rain is such a pain.”

“But the rain makes such nice noises—like _pitter patter_ ,” Bernadetta muses quietly, and Felix feels like she doesn't really meant for him to hear that. “Plus it’s so nice to the plants and the earth.”

Felix lets her ruminate on rainy days and starry nights on her own. And he thinks about his own sunny days and cozy nights.

Eventually, Bernadetta finishes eating and thanks Felix profusely for the meal and for looking after her. Felix waves her off and tells her that they’ll take shifts looking out at night.

“It’s just a safety thing,” he tells her when he sees her face fall.

“You mean I’m going to be on night watch? Alone?”

“I need to sleep too, Bernie.”

Bernadetta looks like she’s about to upend all of the peaches she just ate. “Oh gods, oh gods…”

“It’s fine. There’s probably not going to be anyone. But if you see something suspicious, you wake me up immediately. That way, you’re not facing the problem alone. Okay?”

Bernadetta takes in his words and takes in a deep breath. She nods at him. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I can do that. That doesn't sound too awful.”

Felix feels the slightest swell of pride in his chest. “Good. Now go to bed. I’ll take first watch.”

Bernadetta nods and retreats a little deeper into the cave to the sleeping bag that Felix rolled out for them. She lies down, and Felix takes his position at the mouth of the cave, staring out. Within a few minutes, he hears Bernadetta snoring lightly.

As much as he hates to admit it, his journey feels a lot more bearable now that she’s by his side. He feels a little safer, knowing that he doesn’t have to worry about the times that he’s asleep since she can take watch, and he feels a little less lonely since Bernadetta is with him, willing to hear the sparse and sporadic words he has to say and willing to fill the silence with her own thoughts. Traveling alone made him feel like he was going insane; it made him feel like he was traversing Hell, searching endlessly for a way out but never making any progress. Just being alone like that made him want to pick up his old smoking habit again, his fingers twitching and his teeth gritting as he tries to think of non-stressful, non-smoking related things. Now that he has a friend with him, he thinks that everything is more manageable.

Even so, he can’t help but to long for Sylvain. He looks up at the sky and wonders if Sylvain can see the stars, even without his “moon” beside them.

-

Sylvain stares up at the night sky. It’s getting harder and harder to see through the thick smog in the air, and it’s starting to get irritating—not just because it’s hard to see through but also because it’s starting to stink up the place and make everyone’s throats itchy and tight. Sylvain feels like he has a constant tickle in his throat and has the acrid taste of smoke lingering on his tongue.

The ship has been sailing for a few hours. It’s been smooth sailing, but as they get farther and farther away from the Alliance, Sylvain can see how the bomb’s impact has changed just about everything. The water’s color looks murkier and thicker, almost like they’re sailing on oil. Once in a while, Sylvain will spot things floating in the water. He’ll see an unusual number of fish corpses sitting atop the water; he’ll see metal debris from what seems to be other ships; he’ll see odd colorations and “stains” scattered throughout the water, and he can only assume that it’s from the radiation of the bomb. He even sees a human corpse in the water. His first instinct is to get help, but another sailor beats him to it, reporting to one of the captains who just waves it off and tells them to ignore it.

Other than the startling sights of the once beautiful and vibrant ocean, there’s really nothing notable on his trip. He eats with some of the other soldiers, listens and smiles along when they talk with him. Some give him an odd look, asking him if he’s always been on their squad, but he’ll just tell them he’s new, to which they seem to mostly believe him.

However, word and suspicions must have spread throughout the ship. By morning time, the second that he steps out of his cabin, he is stopped by one of the captains. He blinks and just stares blankly at her, feeling a sinking feeling when he recognizes her and sees the recognition in her eyes. _Shit, just my luck,_ he thinks to himself.

“Sylvain?” Petra asks, frowning. “What are you doing here?”

Sylvain laughs nervously. “Petra! It’s been a while, huh? Haven’t seen you since you were an exchange student back in Faerghus! How’s it going? How are you?”

She fixes him with a flat look. “The other soldiers have been telling me that a rat has joined the ship. And not the squeak-squeak kind.” She sighs. “If you’re working with Agarthans, you should just tell me so we can settle things.” Her hand rests on the pistol strapped to her belt.

Sylvain quickly shakes his head and holds his hands up, his palms facing her. “I’m not working with anyone. I swear.” He sighs and averts his gaze. “I needed to get to Faerghus, and this was the only way I could think of. There weren’t any planes, you know?”

Petra cocks her head, eyes widening. “Faerghus? Why do you have need of Faerghus?” She winces. “Ah, no. I think it’d be better to ask like this: what business do you have in Faerghus?” she clarifies. “It is very, very dangerous there.”

“Felix is there,” he tells her honestly. “I need to see him. I need to make sure he’s okay.” Sylvain locks eyes with her, trying to seem as sincere as possible. “I’m sorry for causing any trouble on your ship, but I _have_ to be there for Felix.”

Petra nods along with what he says. “I see.”

“So please don’t throw me overboard or something.”

Petra smiles a little. “Well, I won’t throw you overboard. At least not yet.”

"Yet?”

“I’m not entirely trusting what you tell me, Sylvain. I have to write a report on this and consult Hubert.”

“Hubert? Like, Hubert von Vestra? _That_ guy?” Sylvain makes a face.

Petra brightens. “Oh, how wonderful! You remember him! It is like a small class get-together of sorts.” She nods at him. “Yes, Emperor Edelgard has sent him with me on my trip. He is my co-captain.” She steps back and gestures at him. “Come with me. We will speak in the captain’s quarters.”

Sylvain sighs but relents, following Petra through the narrow halls and up the rickety, metal stairs of the ship until they reach the captain’s quarters.

“Hubert,” Petra says, stepping in. “There is a matter.”

“And what would this matter be?” Hubert asks from where he’s seated, eyes trained on the book he has open.

"Why don’t you take a look?”

Hubert sets his book down and looks at Sylvain. “Oh.”

“Hey.” Sylvain gives a half-hearted wave. He can't help but to feel like a child getting scolded for trying to sneak a cookie out of the cookie jar.

Hubert narrows his eyes. “What is _he_ doing here?”

“He hitched a ride,” Petra explains.

“I hitched a ride,” Sylvain echoes, nodding in confirmation.

Hubert sighs loudly and pinches the bridge of his nose. “And when did this happen? I need details.”

“Well, back when you were docked at the Alliance a day ago, I snuck onboard.”

"And stole a uniform?” Hubert eyes him up and down. “ _And_ managed to go unnoticed for nearly a whole day?”

Sylvain doesn’t think telling Hubert that he knocked out one of his soldiers and stole his uniform would be very wise so he thinks he’ll keep that fact to himself. “Sure,” he says instead.

“‘Sure?’” Hubert raises an eyebrow.

“Look, it’s not that important,” Sylvain insists with a brisk shake of his head. “I just need a ride to Faerghus.”

Hubert just stares at him, eyes narrowed.

“Um. Please.”

“You’re already onboard,” Hubert says, crossing his arms. “Why are you headed to Faerghus anyway? You must be extraordinarily daft to want to go to a place that has been bombed to high hell and back.”

“My husband, Felix, is there.” Sylvain shifts uncomfortably, shoving his hands in his pockets. “There wasn’t any other way to get from the Alliance to Faerghus, and the only thing I could think to do was to get on this ship.”

Hubert looks over at Petra. Petra shrugs.

“He doesn’t seem like an Agarthan spy,” Petra tells Hubert. “At least I do not believe he is.”

“I’m not,” Sylvain pipes up.

“But we can’t know for sure.” Hubert sighs. “Fine. Stay aboard. However, you will be under constant supervision until we get to Faerghus to ensure that you aren’t sticking your nose where you aren’t supposed to be. Understood?”

Sylvain smiles. “Yeah. Understood.”

“Petra, please look after him.”

Petra glances at Sylvain and then back at Hubert. She gives a small laugh. "Oh! I believe you are mistaken, Hubert. This is my ship. I am the captain. I give the orders. I say that _y_ _ou_ look after him.”

Hubert huffs. “I am Emperor Edelgard’s Prime Minister and most trusted, most capable advisor. I will not be delegated to such a lowly task.”

Sylvain watches as they bicker—Petra seems to be winning if the little smile on her face and the increasingly frustrated look on Hubert’s are anything to go off of—and waits patiently, rocking back and forth on his feet until Hubert gives in with a sigh.

“Fine. We will share this task. I will take first watch. But you look after him next.”

Petra shrugs. “Fair.”

“I’m not _that_ annoying,” Sylvain huffs.

Nevertheless, the rest of the trip goes rather smoothly. Sylvain stays in the captain’s quarters and keeps to himself while the captains steer the ship and go out to occasionally speak with the other passengers. Sylvain keeps himself distracted from his worried thoughts of Felix by talking to Petra and Hubert. Petra doesn’t seem to mind very much—if anything, she looks like she’s enjoying their conversations, laughing and smiling as she excitedly tells him her own anecdotes.

Hubert, on the other hand, seems rather peeved that he has to be near Sylvain so Sylvain decides to mess with him and purposely tries to annoy him with meaningless conversations and commentary—with things that even he himself would hate to hear. He wants to annoy him, but just not enough for him to try and throw him off the ship. It’s pretty entertaining, and it seems to be working too; eventually, Hubert just buries his face in his hands and asks Sylvain to “please, for the love of everything that is holy, _please_ be a respectable hostage-passenger and _shut_ your stupid little mouth for once.”

After two days and one more night of sailing nonstop, the clamor on the ship increases as they start to see Faerghus. Sylvain hurriedly makes his way up to the deck of the ship, though he isn’t quite sure what he’s expecting.

He sure isn’t expecting his heart to abruptly drop into the pit of his stomach when he sees land.

From what he can see, the land is blackened and cracked. Where he expects to see trees flowering outwards with their bountiful and healthy leaves, there’s nothing except maybe the wiry, black frames of branches and tree trunks. Where he once would have seen tall buildings and roads with cars, he sees only the aftermath of destruction. He feels his knees go weak at the thought that Felix is possibly living through this hell.

Petra walks up behind him and sets her hand on his shoulder. He can’t bear to look away from the hauntingly _empty_ land before them.

“We are nearly here at Rhodos Coast,” she tells him softly.

Hubert joins them, his steps nearly completely silent as he takes up the spot beside Sylvain that Petra isn’t at. “We expect to arrival within a few hours,” he says, though his typically apathetic or sarcastic voice seems to be tinted with something akin to pity for Sylvain. “I advise that you prepare yourself.” _Literally and emotionally_ are implied but are not said.

Sylvain has no words, only numbly nodding along as he looks out at the land and hopes, _prays_ , that Felix is alright.


	5. leave little traces so i can find you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain sets out to find Felix and finds himself getting into a few sticky situations.

By the time that the ship pulls into the docks of Rhodos Coast, Sylvain is brimming with nerves. He knows that Rhodos Coast is pretty far from where he and Felix lived together, but he knows that there isn’t anything that’s going to stop him from finding Felix, even if it means that he has to traverse every inch, every damn _centimeter_ , of Faerghus on foot a hundred times. However, it is concerning that the land before him seems dead silent, that no one seems to be around but the soldiers that came the ship, that the air around him is heavy with chemicals that make his nose and eyes burn.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Petra asks quietly. “We are willing to bring you back to the Empire with us.” She looks out at the land. “It is very sad that this is the land of Faerghus now. It doesn’t feel safe.”

“It isn’t safe,” Hubert chimes in, rather unhelpfully, “which is why it is absolutely ludicrous that you think you should go, Sylvain. Might I remind you that the logistics of you finding one person out of everyone in Faerghus are pitifully low and that the probability that he has survived the bomb blast—”

“Shut up,” Sylvain huffs. “He’s alive. I know he is.” He turns to face Hubert, who looks somewhat surprised at his outburst and his tone. “I’m _sick_ and _tired_ of people telling me that I shouldn’t do this or that Felix is probably dead or that this is all just wishful. Don’t you think I know how dangerous this is? Don’t you think I’ve already considered that Felix might be d-dead?” His voice clips on the last word. The thought of Felix being dead is too unbearably to even fathom. “This is my decision,” he says softer, averting his gaze. “If I’m going to die, it might as well be here, on my own terms, while I’m looking for the love of my life.”

There’s a thick pause before Hubert begins to speak again.

“That’s very admirable of you,” comes Hubert’s hushed voice. “I hate to say it, but your way of thinking parallels my own. If the ones I loved were in peril, I too would risk my life to save them.” He nods at Sylvain. “Very well. If you wish to leave, feel free to. But I advise that you take this at least.”

Sylvain looks up and sees that Hubert is offering him a dagger.

“It’s a safety precaution,” explains Hubert, gesturing at Sylvain to take it. “And it may serve multiple purposes.” He pauses. “I have many more. Please feel free to do with it as you please. It will not bother me.”

Sylvain takes the dagger and examines it, turning it over and tracing the intricate designs swirling up at the hilt. “Thank you, Hubert.” Sylvain attaches it to his belt. He smiles at him and Petra. “And thanks for the ride here.”

Hubert gives a small scoff and waves him off. Petra gives his shoulder a firm clap and looks into his eyes, a determined look in her own.

“Be careful,” she tells him. “And good luck!”

“Good luck,” Hubert echoes, retreating into the captain’s quarters.

And with that, Sylvain sets off from the ship, a new dagger strapped to his belt and large hiking bag slung over his shoulder. He isn’t quite sure where he’s headed, but getting a move on would be better than just standing around and waiting for someone to magically appear and hand him a map.

Within a few minutes of walking, Sylvain has to fish out his gas mask and strap it on. His eyes were watering and stinging, and his nostrils burned as the pungent scent of smoke and decay attacked his senses. The gas mask helps a little, but it does little the quell the fear of what Felix must be going through.

It’s an eerie feeling, walking through a ghost town with decrepit buildings that tower over him and shredded or stray scraps of cars and furniture lying about. It’s entirely silent around him, which makes sense considering that the only other bodies around him are all dead. Sylvain suppresses a shudder and forces himself forward.

It’s an exhausting walk, trudging through smoggy air with low visibility and irritated lungs. It doesn’t help that he feels like he’s packed way too much for this trip. His shoulders start to ache after maybe an hour into his journey, and his boots feel heavy, as if he’s being weighed down by the backpack. Frustrated by his aching body, he pulls into an abandoned shop—it looks like it was once a convenience store, if the rows and rows of snacks and drinks any indication of anything—and he goes through his belongings. He tosses out anything he deems unnecessary, like the extra clothes he brought along and any shoes that wouldn’t last him in this environment, and sorts through his belongings, trying to make his bag weigh less.

He freezes when he hears somebody enter the store too.

“They have to have some water or _something_ good left over here, right?”

“That’s the idea.”

Sylvain turns to the entrance of the store, zipping up his bag and hurriedly putting it on. He sees a pair of what appears to be males, the shorter one of the two wearing a hood and the taller of the two wearing a mask. They quietly sneak about the aisles, pulling plastic chip bags out of the shelves and into their beat-up backpacks. Sylvain follows them for a bit, but when he realizes that they aren’t going to notice him, too busy collecting food and whisper-yelling at each other about _something_ , he takes things into his own hands.

“Hey,” Sylvain calls out. They jump, and the masked one reaches for something at his belt. Sylvain blinks and holds his hands up in what he hopes is a placating manner when he finds that the masked person is aiming a gun at him. “Whoa. Uh, no need for violence.”

“Who are you?” the hooded one hisses out.

“I’m just passing through here. I was wondering if you had directions. Like a map or something.”

The masked one barks out a laugh and lowers his gun a slightly. “A map? What, do we look like an information desk to you?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “No, no. Er, I’m just looking for someone.” Sylvain wonders if he should show them a picture of Felix, like from the one of them together on their honeymoon that he always carries around in his wallet, but he quickly decides against it. They don’t seem like a very friendly bunch.

“Yeah? And? So are we.” The hooded one levels him with a flat glare. “What are we supposed to do about it?”

“I was just going to ask for directions.”

The masked one tucks the gun back into his belt and crosses his arms with a dramatic sigh. Sylvain can see his eyes rolling in the mask. “Fine. You’re in Rhodos. Faerghus. Happy?” 

“Well, could you elaborate? I’m trying to get to Itha.”

Itha, the city between where the Fradarius family lived and where the Gautier family lived. Sylvain distinctly remembers insisting that they live near Felix’s hometown, but Felix vehemently refused, saying that he’d rather live near Sylvain’s home. They both realized that they had rather unpleasant experiences at their respective hometowns and decided _why not just live in the middle_? With their budget at the time, it made perfect sense; but they’ve lived there even after they’ve made enough money to live in a bigger city, having grown attached to their dinky apartment. Sylvain feels a pang of nostalgia and longing resound through his chest.

 _When I get Felix out of this hellhole,_ Sylvain thinks to himself, _I’m going to get him a nice, safe house. A big house with a bunch of cats and a big room for him to show off all his swords and he’s going to be happy and_ not _in this living nightmare of a country._

The two vagabonds exchange looks and then nod. The masked male promptly points past Sylvain. “That way.”

Sylvain smiles a little. They aren’t the best directions he’s ever gotten, but he’s glad to at least get a start. “Thanks.” He turns to leave.

“Hold it.”

“Hm?” Sylvain turns around to face the pair.

The hooded one holds out a gloved hand, the glove clearly worn down and torn in a few places. “Compensate us.”

Sylvain huffs. “For what?”

“You wasted our time, and we gave you your stupid directions.” The hooded male flexes his fingers, almost teasingly. “It’s only right,” he adds.

Sylvain debates just making a run for it, but he remembers wisely that the masked man has a gun on him. He fights the urge to get himself into a fight. “Alright. Well? What do you want from me?” he asks flatly.

“Mask.”

“The dagger.”

The two answers come out in unison, and the two look at each other, clearly surprised. The hooded man puts a hand on his hip and the masked man crosses his arms.

“The dagger serves a long-term use,” the masked man argues, “for _both_ of us. It’s a weapon and a tool.”

“Oh, please. It’s always about you until I get a chance or something. Then it’s for the ‘both’ of us. I need a fucking mask too!”

“You can just borrow mine, you blockheaded dunce!”

As they argue, bickering back and forth, Sylvain slowly backs away from them. They don’t seem to notice, not even when Sylvain’s back touches the glass doors of the abandoned convenience store.

Sylvain grins a little and pushes the door with his back.

Still no reaction from either of them. If anything, they looks like they’re about to fight each other rather than attempt to stop Sylvain.

Sylvain pushes the door a little more, a little slowly to prevent it from making any noise. It squeaks anyway. Sylvain flinches.

Sylvain bolts out the door, running in the direction that the masked man had pointed to. He isn’t even sure if that man was being serious or not, but he wasn’t going to wait around in there and get robbed of his equipment. He flicks his gaze back behind him, but finds that the vagabonds are just standing at the door, watching as he takes off. One seems to be shaking his head. Perhaps they’ve given up.

Even so, Sylvain keeps himself running for as long as he can manage—he doesn’t want to get careless and get shot, after all. He runs until his chest and throat burn, until he feels like his legs have turned to jelly and his insides are rioting against him. He slows his pace, keeping an arm wrapped around his middle. He feels like he’s going to vomit.

He’s made it quite far—maybe a little less than a mile. He’s glad that he was a track star and a football player in high school. Those past experiences of always having to keep his stamina and his speed up in afterschool events were hellishly unforgiving, but it certainly came in helpful here. While he’s definitely sure that high school Sylvain could easily beat him in a race, he’s proud that he’s been able to run this far for this long. He’s not extremely old or anything, but he still thinks that it’s impressive, considering that the only time he ever runs is when he’s going to the gym with Felix.

At a much slower pace, Sylvain ambles about until he manages to leave the city and walk out into what appears to be some sort of highway. It takes him until nightfall—though Sylvain finds that it’s kind of hard to tell that it’s getting any darker because of the filter on the eyes of his gas mask as well as the poor visibility. He isn’t quite sure if it’s actually nightfall, but he’s tired and that’s what he’s going to call it.

It doesn’t take him long to realize that there are cars all over the place. Some are still on the road, backed up in impossibly long lines of traffic; others are on the side of the road. Sylvain spots a few that are upturned and demolished. They’re all mostly empty, though—just one peek through the shattered windows and the dented doors that were left ajar is enough to tell him that. It hurts his heart a bit to see a few infant car seats and toddlers’ toys carelessly left behind in the wreckage.

 _But where did everyone go_? Sylvain thinks. _If the bomb had dropped and these people had enough time to get in their cars and drive out here, there wasn’t anything actively pursuing them._

Then he remembers—how could he have forgotten?—the Empire ships coming to support Faerghus. They must have been in such a desperate rush to get out of Faerghus that they were willing to abandon their cars and belongings. And the ensuing damages must have been done by reckless survivors who were unable to catch a boat to the Alliance or the Empire, by people who were so desperate to stay alive that they were willing to break into others’ cars and steal what belongings were stored in there. It makes sense. Sylvain can see people driven by the _need_ for food and water, for clothes and possible tools or weapons. Even so, it’s just disheartening.

Sylvain gives a small sigh as he pops the door open on a nearby SUV. It was unlocked, surprisingly, and it swings open with little resistance. Sylvain gives a cursory look around the car, and when he finds nothing particularly notable, he climbs up and looks around in the inside of the car. It’s relatively clean—save for some old, miscellaneous stains and the typically crumbs and grime found on the ground of car. There’s also a small, pink coat, a car seat, and a stuffed animal, all of which probably belonged to the owner of this car’s child. Otherwise, there’s nothing special there either.

Sylvain pulls the door in behind him, leaving a little crack for air to come in. Then he takes his bag off his shoulders so he can grab himself something to eat. As he pops the lid of his canned corn with Hubert’s dagger, he takes a moment to think. He stares down at the can between his hands.

 _This is it,_ he tells himself. _This is dinner. And this is what life is going to be like, now that I’m here. Lonely, cold, dangerous. Being tired. Eating out of cans. Sleeping in weird places so I’m not exposed to anything or anybody. Living with a gas mask on at all times. This is it._

Somehow, he’s reminded of his childhood. He was pretty lonely then too—and nearly always in danger because of his father and his brother. If he thinks about it, he also had to sleep in odd places from time to time to make sure Miklan didn’t try to take him out in his sleep, like that time he slept outside in a tree after their father beat the fuck out of Miklan for something he probably didn’t do or that time that he slept standing upright in their storage closet because he knew his father had gotten that call from his teacher about him goofing off and being annoying during a serious history lesson. It’s like he’s living back in those miserable times.

Only this time, Felix isn’t there to hold him together. He isn’t here to offer his bed, his giggles, his warm smiles. He isn’t here to fuss at him about the bruises he ‘mysteriously’ got. He isn’t here to brush his messy hair aside and cling to him, begging him to come with him back to his home so that he can make sure that Sylvain isn’t getting into any trouble or getting hurt again. He just isn’t here. And it’s killing Sylvain.

He can’t help but wonder how he’s going to make it out of this situation with Felix by his side. Sylvain brings his attention back to his ‘dinner’ in his hands. He takes off his gas mask, shivering at the feeling of cool air hitting his sweaty face, and he eats, even though each mouthful of corn feels like a mouthful of ashes.

He lies down after his dinner and stares up at the ceiling of the SUV.

 _Leave little traces so I can find you, Felix,_ Sylvain thinks to himself as he starts to drift to sleep. _Wait for me. I’ll find you; I’ll save you, I swear._

-

In the morning—or whatever time his body decides to wake him up at—Sylvain feels like shit. His neck and back hurt from the uncomfortable car seat; his face had been smushed up against his gas mask while he slept, which reminds Sylvain of the times Felix would click his tongue and scold him for falling asleep with his glasses on; and his hair feels gross. He’s always been a firm believer of the phrase, “When your hair looks bad, _you_ feel bad too.”

Oh, and he’s hungry too.

Sylvain gives a soft groan and sits upright, wiping his eyes and stretching his arms out. His fists bump into the car’s roof and the clunky DVD player installed on it. Mumbling out some incoherent curses, he fishes out a can of pineapples. He tries to pry the lid off with the dagger as he did the night before, but the blade slips and nicks his finger instead. What a morning.

Lamenting the use of a band-aid hardly a day into the journey, Sylvain patches himself up and eats his fruits in silence. When he remembers that he’s going to have to walk even more today, he groans to himself and looks at the front, hoping that the family had left their keys in the car. They hadn’t. Sylvain’s poor aching legs throb and ache even more in protest.

Sylvain pokes around in a few nearby cars. Most of them do not have the keys in them, but the few that do have almost no gas or are in a place where it’s practically impossible for him to either get into the car or pull the car out of the bumper-to-bumper traffic they’d all been left in. Sylvain curses loudly and stuffs his hands in his pockets as he begins his journey forward.

He walks around all day, taking as much of a straight path as he can. Nothing special happens. He makes it far away from the city bordering Rhodos Coast, and he takes time to drink water and eat. When he gets tired again—even more tired than he already is from walking tens of miles on the sheer power of canned food and a questionable amount of sleep—he finds that he’s made it to another town.

It looks almost exactly like the one at Rhodos Coast. The only difference here is that he sees more people wandering around, and it looks to be much bigger, with roads the branch off into even more roads and with surrounding suburbs and smaller cities.

Sylvain walks up to the first person he sees—she appears to be a haggard, middle-aged mother with her infant strapped to her back through the use of a blanket. Hunched over the ground, she seems to be looking for something, her hands picking through debris and pushing aside shattered glass and bricks.

If Sylvain were the man he was almost fifteen years ago—fifteen years?! oh, how time flies—he would try to flirt with her, try to persuade her into giving him information through meaningless, sweet words. But Sylvain’s also sure that his younger self would have gotten himself into some deep shit way before he even set foot on Rhodos Coast. He’s ineffably glad that he’s given up that awful, awful habit—that terrible coping mechanism that nearly destroyed his relationship with all of his friends and the love of his life on several different occasions.

“Excuse me?”

The woman jolts and turns to face him, her expression falling grim.

"Please,” she begs. “I-I don’t have anything. I just—I’m just…” Her eyes waver with fear and are developing a glossy sheen of tears over them. She averts her gaze. “Please, don’t take from me. I have a baby to feed.”

Sylvain blinks. Has he always come off as an intimidating figure? He clears his throat. “Ma’am, I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

She gives him a brief once-over with her eyes narrowed. Sylvain raises an eyebrow. The infant on her back gives a soft whimper, and she bounces it lightly against her back, shushing it quietly. It seems to calm down a little. A tired expression takes place on her face.

“You can’t fool me, hon,” she tells him, and before Sylvain can react, she has a large sharp of glass in her hand. She holds it up, tightening her grip. The glass digs into her hands and draws blood, but she hardly winces. “I can fight back. I won’t give you anything!”

At her raised voice, the infant begins to bawl.

Sylvain, as much as he respects this mother, just sighs and holds his hands up. He just can’t seem to catch a break, it seems. “I’m not trying to rob you,” he says slowly, calmly, “I just want to know what city this is and how I can get to Itha.”

She shakes her head. “Don't play games with me. You know what city this is.”

“Awfully presumptuous of you to say that.” Sylvain puts his hands down. “For you information, ma’am, I genuinely don’t know where I am.”

She glares at him, her hand still tightly grasping the glass. But after her stern glare and what feels like a million years of her staring directly into Sylvain’s soul through his eyes, she lowers her weapon and gives him a wary look.

"You're in Mateus.” She frowns. “And I’m not sure where Itha is. I’d just assume it’s in the opposite direction that you came from, if you couldn’t find it there.”

Sylvain shrugs. “That’s better than nothing. Thanks.” Before he leaves, his eyes catch on the infant and its dirt-covered, gaunt cheeks. His heart clenches a little in his chest, and he looks to the woman, who is still watching him. “Um, before I go.” He takes off his bag. The woman tenses, but she relaxes when Sylvain holds out a can of applesauce and a roll of bandages.

“It isn’t much,” he says awkwardly, “but I think you need these more than I do.”

The woman carefully takes the can and the bandages, looking genuinely shocked.

“I… Thank you. Thank you so much.” She smiles at him. “I’m sorry for being so hostile earlier. It’s hard to trust people here. Mateus has had quite a large number of bandits lately.”

“Why’s that?”

The woman shakes her head. “I wish I could tell you. I’m not entirely sure myself. I’m only here because I’ve lived here. I didn’t want to risk moving out to somewhere I didn’t know, especially in my old age and with my child.”

Sylvain presses his lips into a thin line. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” Even though he wishes that he could help her more, he really has nothing more to offer her. The rest of his food, weapons, and water have to be used for himself in his pursuit to find his husband. Even though he feels awful about being so useless, Sylvain slings his bag over his shoulder and takes a step back. “I have to go now. Please take care.”

She smiles at him and nods sagely at him. “You too. Thank you again.”

Sylvain waves at her and makes his way through Mateus. He scouts for safe places to stay for the time being, but everywhere he goes, he feels like he’s being watched. He’ll spot a few people eyeing him when he tries to settle into a building or when he walks into an alleyway. At one point, he’s pretty convinced that he’s being followed.

And his assumptions are right.

About half an hour into his search for a good place to stay, he gets pushed to the ground with the muzzle of a gun pressed against his head. Shards of glass and debris press into his torso.

"Don’t move a muscle or I'll fucking shoot,” his assailant tells him and chuckles as he pries Sylvain’s backpack off his shoulders. “Got a lot of stuff here, huh?” he muses. “Well, it’s truly fortunate that I found them all lying around here in this nice little alleyway, don’t you think? Boss is going to love this.”

 _Boss?_ Sylvain flicks his glance to the ugly brigand toting his backpack around. The man twirls his pistol along his finger and tucks it into his pockets. _He’s working for someone?_

The man grins maliciously and gives him a cocky two-finger salute as he begins to walk out of the alley. Sylvain feels his blood boil with fury. He finds himself sprinting after the sorry bastard and tackling him to the ground.

The bandit gets pinned to the ground, in the same position Sylvain had been in, and Sylvain thrusts his fists into the back of the man’s head. The man had picked quite an inopportune time to try and get a look at Sylvain before Sylvain manages to land a strong punch right to his left eye and cheekbone. The bandit grunts in pain and wriggles, but Sylvain keeps him pressed against the ground and pries the gun from his hands. The man’s hold on the gun is quite solid, but Sylvain manages to rip the gun from his fingers and quickly cock it, pressing it to the man’s head.

He’s just about to pull the trigger when he hears it.

A gun cocks behind him before it’s pressed to the back of his neck. Sylvain instinctively freezes, his blood going cold. His heartbeat jackrabbits, and he can hear his own heartbeat—can _feel it_ —in his ears.

"Not bad,” a voice muses from behind him, with the signature tinge of scratchiness and roughness from cigarettes. “Not bad at all.” The voice laughs. “You fight like you have nothing to lose, charging at an armed man like that.”

 _That’s not true,_ he wants to say. _I fight because I have the world to win back. I have to survive, to find Felix, to keep him safe._

The tiny pressure at his neck disappears, and Sylvain realizes that the gun isn’t there anymore. Quickly, he jumps off the bandit and flicks his gun in the direction of the voice. He doesn’t pull the trigger, but he keeps the gun held high and aimed, a very obvious threat.

The man standing before him is some grizzled man, around ten to fifteen years older than he is, but he still looks quite fit. He looks grimy with dirt smeared across his face and several old blood stains splattered against his clothes. He grins at Sylvain, his teeth crooked and yellowed.

“Who are you?” he huffs.

"Me? I’m Marcellus. But most people around here call me Boss.” Marcellus puts his gun away.

 _He’s the boss that that thief was talking about,_ Sylvain realizes. _It’s probably not a smart idea to attack him, then. He’s probably got a few people who are willing to fight for him—no telling what they’d do if I killed him._

“And who the hell are you?”

“Sylvain.” It doesn’t occur to him that he could use a fake name until he’s already said his real one. Regardless, he doubles down and continues, “My name is Sylvain.”

“Well, Sylvain!” Marcellus looks over at the bandit struggling to pick himself up off the ground. “Looks like you managed to disarm my shithead lackey.” He raises an eyebrow, his lips quirked in a sly half-smile. “What were you thinking, tackling a man who _just_ robbed you? He held you at gunpoint. Weren’t you scared of getting shot?”

"I need my shit back,” Sylvain says flatly, tightening his grip on his newly acquired gun but lowering it slightly. “And if I need to risk my life, then so be it.”

Marcellus guffaws quite heartily. “You’d risk your life for that? What’s in there?”

"Nothing you’d find interesting.”

Marcellus eyes Sylvain up and down before smirking. “Know what, kid? You remind me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

 _Kid?_ Sylvain thinks bitterly. _I’m not too much younger than you are. You’re just a little older than Miklan would have been if he were still alive._

“I think some younger energy around here would probably be useful,” continues Marcellus. “Hey, how do you feel about joining a gang?” Marcellus strides over nonchalantly to the bandit on the ground and takes the backpack from him. “You can have your stuff back, and you can come hang with us.”

“What exactly do you do?”

"Hmm. I guess you can say that we’re just a little family of sorts. We stick together and we fight together. We collect all the useful things we can find in a town and bounce to the next one. We’re headed up to Sreng. Heard it’s not as much of a shithole up there.”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. He’s not stupid. He knows that these scumbags are probably the thieves that that woman with the baby had mentioned earlier. He doesn’t particularly want to go around and rob people—no, he _really_ doesn’t want to do that at all, actually—but they’re supposedly headed to Sreng, which is relatively close to Itha. Sylvain has no idea where Itha is, and he’s bound to get attacked more if he’s out alone. Perhaps it’d be in his best interest to stick around with the group. Maybe he could persuade them to be a little less _antagonistic_ while they travel.

Oh, speaking of antagonistic—Sylvain watches as Marcellus turns his attention to the bandit.

“Warren, you incompetent pig,” he barks, swiftly kicking him in the stomach. “You let this stray beat you? Pathetic. Pathetic! You had a fucking _gun_! I could take a shit that’d be do better than you in a fight!”

"I’m sorry, Boss,” the bandit yelps as he falls to the ground again and doubles over in pain. Sylvain winces as Marcellus continuously beats him.

“Hey,” Sylvain pipes up, and Marcellus turns his gaze to him. “So you’re, uh, going to Sreng?”

Marcellus smirks. “Interested?”

“Maybe.” Sylvain narrows his eyes. “But I don’t know how I feel about you guys beating innocent people up and taking their shit.”

“Oh! Oh, no, no, no!" Marcellus exclaims quite exaggeratedly. "Why, we'd never do such a thing. Who says we’re doing that?” Marcellus laughs. “We just dig around abandoned shops and take what we can. Nothing bad.”

Sylvain has his doubts.

“It’s a one-time offer,” Marcellus continues. He holds up Sylvain’s bag. “And you want this back, don’t you?”

Well, he guesses that it’s settled. Sylvain isn’t going to just give up his belongings and risk dying out in the middle of nowhere before he has the chance to find Felix, and he’s not about to get a hit put on him for killing Marcellus. He's not even entirely sure if he'd make it out of this encounter alive if he denied Marcellus of what he wants, seeing as he's willing to dish out violent punishments at the drop of a pin. He’s just going to have to tag along with the group and try not to let them do anything bad. Maybe he can distract them with his own food and supplies. Or maybe he can go back and compensate the people with his stuff, assuming that they’re still alive after they’ve encountered Marcellus and his crew.

Gods, what a sticky situation. And a waste of some perfectly good supplies.

Nevertheless, Sylvain nods at Marcellus, ignoring the sinking feeling of guilt and the icky feeling he gets when he does something he _really_ shouldn't.

“Alright. I’ll join you.”


	6. don't say you lose just yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix and Bernadetta find others along their journey.

After a relatively peaceful night, where nothing particularly special happened during Felix or Bernadetta’s night watch shifts, Felix wakes up and gives Bernadetta a small nod of acknowledgment. He opens up his bag and digs around before he picks out what they're going to eat for a brief breakfast. Bernadetta gratefully takes the granola bar from Felix when he offers it to her and settles against the wall of the cave. Felix, standing with his eyebrow raised and one arm on his hip, just stares at her.

“We have to get moving,” he tells her when she gives him a confused look.

She wilts like a dying flower. “But…” She holds up her energy bar. “Can’t I finish this before we go?”

“Eat while we walk. Those are not two mutually exclusive things.” Felix unwraps his own granola bar and throws his backpack over his shoulder. “Come on. We don't have time to just sit around.”

Bernadetta gives a soft sigh but complies, pulling herself up off the ground. She walks beside Felix as she eats, but her gaze seems to linger on the granola bar in Felix’s hand. Felix had barely taken any bites out of it.

“Are you still not hungry?” she asks softly.

Felix gives a noncommittal grunt and takes a bite. “Satisfied?” he deadpans.

Bernadetta gives him a _look_ , which Felix returns, but she doesn’t say anything more, turning her gaze to her granola bar. When she finishes eating, she folds the plastic wrapper into a series of small rectangles, creasing them with her nails, and she tucks it in her pocket. Felix barely eats half his granola bar and then wraps the remaining parts with the wrapper, stuffing it in his own pocket.

Bernadetta is brimming with anxious energy, even more so than when she was keeping watch the night before. Her mind is racing with thoughts, and she can’t slow them. Her fears of what Linhardt and Caspar must be going through—if they’re still even alive—eat away at her heart, and her concerns for Felix’s poor appetite and very visible fatigue are concerning her. She’s so busy worrying about her three friends and any other poor souls caught up in this mess that she doesn’t seem to be worrying enough about herself.

She is interrupted out of her thoughts by a series of thick coughs, burning up the back of her throat. It sounds heavy and _awful_. It doesn’t last very long, but it still draws Felix’s attention. Felix’s head snaps to look at her, his eyebrows draw together in concern. He seems to compose his expression quite quickly, but Bernadetta’s already seen the concern on his face. She knows it’s a façade.

“That’s weird,” she croaks. She clears her throat and takes the water that Felix offers her. She takes a sip and clears her throat. It still burns, and she feels a persistent itch settle in her throat. “I feel fine.” It’s mostly the truth.

Felix gives her a skeptical look, raising an eyebrow. “You’re sure? If you need to, we can take more breaks. I’m not going to push you too much if you’re feeling sick.”

She refuses to slow him down more than she already is. “Maybe it was some granola that got stuck in my throat,” she tries to rationalize, even though her brain is already creating a mental doomsday counter for her. _Tick tock,_ her brain cries out, _it’s death o’clock! You’re going to die from this mystery illness in the middle of nowhere!_

“Alright,” says Felix, though he doesn’t look like he really believes her.

They continue to walk, though at a noticeably slower pace with Felix’s eyes seeming to linger on Bernadetta as they go. Guilt of slowing their search down weighs heavy on Bernadetta’s chest, but so does the urge to cough her lungs out. Her chest burns with each cough occasionally expelled from her body, but other than that and the increasing fatigue wracking her body, she feels alright.

But with every hour that drifts away from them, with every hour that Felix and Bernadetta spend walking, Bernadetta’s concerns only grow more and more. The last time she’s seen Linhardt and Caspar—the last time she’s spoken to them—they looked so _distraught_. Linhardt had been wearing such a solemn face, his eyes narrowed and his lips pulled into a taut frown as Caspar’s veins bulging out of his forward as his face scrunched up into one of absolute fury, his jaw locked and fists clenched as they watched the government warning on the television that was loudly proclaiming that the bomb’s estimated time of impact was in less than two minutes. The government warning had _just_ come on.

Linhardt, with his exasperated and frustrated expression, and Caspar, with his constant insistence that he _can_ and _will_ save Linhardt and Bernadetta from this situation, had been arguing loudly. Bernadetta had weakly tried to separate them, but they ignored her until they felt the ground vibrate violently, even though the bomb was said to go off miles and miles away, an ear-shattering _boom_ tearing across the land. Immediately, the lights felt out, and the sky began to turn from a lively blue to a sickly gray.

The chorus of screams erupting across the country was haunting. The way that Linhardt had lost consciousness after the rumbling knocked him off his feet and slammed his head into a dresser. The way Caspar yells for him as their apartment building shook like a leaf in a tornado. The way that Bernadetta’s chest began to ache as her heartbeat fluttered about in her chest like a hummingbird and the way that her stomach began to roll and twist and spin, making her nauseous from the constant movement of their building.

She had hid herself away in a closet and shut her eyes, hyperventilating as Caspar tried to bring Linhardt back to consciousness. She can’t remember what happened immediately after that, though she recalls hearing Caspar call her name out and her voice getting caught in her throat, but what she does remember is that she was alone in the ruins of the apartment building, her clothes covered in all sorts of debris and her body bearing with several bruises and cuts.

Where are Caspar and Linhardt? Are they alright? And are they thinking of Bernadetta the way that she’s thinking of them?

Her thoughts and concerns hover over her like a dark cloud that grows darker and bigger until she finally can’t keep her concerns from taking over. Her chest grows tight; every beat of her heart hurts.

“Hey, Felix…” Bernadetta trains her eyes on the ground as they take a break beside a broken-down car. Bernadetta watches as Felix’s pacing feet slow to a stop and turn slightly to face her. He stays silent, but Bernadetta assumes that he’s paying attention. “Do you think that Linhardt and Caspar are really okay?” she asks, her voice small. “I mean, we haven’t seen them, and there’s no clues or anything of them. I’m… I’m so worried for them.”

Felix doesn’t say anything, even when Bernadetta raises her gaze to meet his. But she quickly realizes that it’s because he’s not even looking at her.

She follows his gaze and finds that he’s intently watching a group of four men wandering around about twenty-five feet away. The men saunter and laugh obnoxiously. They’re wearing large backpacks like Felix, and two of them are flaunting their weapons.

“They don’t look very friendly,” Felix muses flatly.

“Oh gods,” Bernadetta mewls. “We’re going to die, aren’t we? Oh, and we never got to find Linhardt or Caspar…”

Felix shoots her a scathing look. “If we stay quiet, they won’t see us,” he says lowly. “And even if they do see us, they won’t kill us. I won’t let that happen.” His expression relaxes a little. “So stick with me. Got it?”

Bernadetta nods.

Felix keeps his gaze on them, and they seem to be passing with little problem.

And then it happens.

Bernadetta coughs.

A series of coughs, starting as an uncomfortable itch in her throat, tear themselves through Bernadetta’s lungs, and despite how hard she tries to hold them in and cover them, they manage to escape. Felix stares at her, his eyes wide. They hear the group of men go silent. Bernadetta and Felix both look over and find that the men are starting turned towards the car they’re crouched behind.

“Fuck,” Felix mouths.

“Sorry,” Bernadetta mouths back, and that familiar feeling of guilt and self-hated start to manifest in her heart, start to bring desperate, frustrated tears to her eyes. “I’m so, so, _so_ sorry.”

Felix just shakes his head, but Bernadetta isn’t quite sure what to make of it. He reaches into his bag and hands her a knife.

“Just in case.”

Bernadetta grimaces but nods, curling her fingers around the knife.

Everything is tense. Felix and Bernadetta keep their backs pressed against the car, knowing that peeking out to look at the bandits could be a dead giveaway of their presence. Bernadetta tightly shuts her eyes and waits, thinking of happier times. Like when she and Edelgard went to the local national history museum together to look at some pretty prehistoric plants, or like when Ferdinand and Hubert kept her away from her terrifying father and kept her happy and distracted while they called for police to investigate her living situation, or like when Sylvain read her writing and gushed about it with her afterwards.

“Looks like we found ourselves some rats, boys,” sneers a voice.

Bernadetta peeks open one eye and finds a gaunt man staring at them, leaning on his baseball bat. Her heart sinks when his gaze lands on her, and she instinctively scoots closer to Felix. She hears the other men coming forward.

“Say, you got a pretty big bag on you,” the gaunt man says. “Looks really heavy. How about we do you a favor and take it off your hands?”

Felix glares. “Fuck off.”

The gaunt man laughs. “Oh, you’re so rude! It was a genuine question!” Then, he stands upright, pointing the bat at Felix. Bernadetta goes pale when she sees the blood stains and dents marking the metal bat. “But, since you look like the stubborn type, how about I ask again?” He makes a show of flexing his fingers on the handle of the bat. “Give us your stuff.”

The other men in the gang snicker, and the other armed man, wielding a knife, flanks the gaunt man.

“I’d rather die than give you this,” Felix snaps.

“And die you will,” snarks the knife-wielder.

Before Bernadetta knows it, the man holding up the bat is reeling back, bat held high. Bernadetta gulps and launches herself at Felix, knocking him over. Felix, who would have been missing a part of his skull and brain, topples over under Bernadetta’s weight, but he pulls himself upright. A terrible pain blooms against her side as the metal bat lands a hit right where her ribs are. She cries out, but she’s relieved that she didn’t hearing anything break.

Felix stares at her, wide-eyed, but his shock quickly turns into anger.

“Aw, Callen, you hit the girl,” one of the men said. “Could have been a fun toy to have around.” He bears his yellow-stained teeth in a grin at her.

Bernadetta grits her teeth and shakily pushes herself up despite how every moment hurts. “Fuck you,” she says. Since she’s so winded, it hardly comes off as aggressive; she’s hoping that the fury on her face conveys her emotions.

Felix cuts through the conversation, rushing forward with his own knife. He manages to stab the man that said that awful comment right in the stomach. The man howls and gurgles before falling to the ground. All the other men in the group turn their attention to Felix and start to attack. Bernadetta can’t bear to watch Felix take on three men on his own so she forces herself to her feet, even though the pain in her side aches and makes her feel a little nauseous. She sees Felix get cut by the man holding the knife and take a hard punch from the unarmed man. He nearly falls to the ground.

 _I’m tired of dragging him down,_ she thinks as she takes a small step forward. _So sick and tired! Felix has done so much for me. And I know—I_ know!— _that I’m strong! Bernie can do this! Only the strong survive and I’ve already made it so far!_

Bernadetta charges and tightens her grip on the knife Felix gave her. She blindly swipes at whoever is in front of her, nailing the unarmed fighter right in the back, between the shoulder blades, with her knife. The knife sinks in deep, and she presses more into it, glaring at the back of the man’s head. She ignores how he yells out in agony, how he falls to the ground and goes still.

She yanks the knife out and turns her attention to Felix. To her surprise, he’s only fighting the man with the bat, the other unarmed man lying on the floor near their feet. But where is the—

Bernadetta shrieks as she narrowly dodges a knife meant for her chest. The blade digs into her shirt and drives itself into her shoulder, and she cries out. The man with the knife pulls the knife back and takes up a defensive stance as he watches Bernadetta stumble backwards, holding the knife up.

The knife-wielding man is very agile, and it doesn’t help that she’s still favoring the non-bruised side of her body. Bernadetta finds herself taking more and more cuts as she tries to land a good jab in on him. After a while, she can’t help but to feel that the man is mocking her, grinning at her and giving her nonfatal, small cuts— _like a lion playing with its prey,_ she thinks bitterly as she cradles her newest wound.

But she’s always been good at finding a way out—whether it’s a stifling atmosphere or a conflict she’d rather not be in, she’d be able to escape. She finds that her opponent tends to move in a rather odd pattern, a constant zig-zag movement as he jumps away from Bernadetta to provoke her into attacking. So she adopts the same pose, her body lowered as she bounces towards him. He watches carefully, looking a little confused at the new determined expression and the new tactic that she’s employed—even though it is his own. When Bernadetta feints a stab to the left, he catches her movement and instinctively moves right.

 _Bernie’s gotcha!_ Bernadetta thinks triumphantly as she quickly jabs her knife into the man’s solar plexus from the right. The man’s eyes widen as his mouth forms a silent scream of agony. He crumples to the ground, and Bernadetta lets out a little pant of exhaustion as she falls to her knees.

She lifts her gaze and finds Felix beating the bandit over the head with his own bat. She winces at the spray of blood that erupts from his head once the metal meets his skull. He doesn’t stop until the man’s face is mangled, until he’s unrecognizable. Then, he kicks the corpse for good measure and looks over at Bernadetta. He hurries over. She smiles at him, but her smile falters when she sees how he’s seething.

“You idiot,” he snarls. “How could you do something like that?”

“You were gonna get hit,” she protests. “I had to!”

“I don’t need your help!”

“You clearly did! You were outnumbered, and you were getting hurt!” Bernadetta coughs roughly, and Felix’s expression relaxes a little. “I’ve been dragging you down this entire time,” she continues quietly. “I couldn’t let you _die_ because of my own incompetence.” She sighs but smiles up at him. “Besides, Sylvain would never forgive me if I let something happen,” she jokes weakly.

Felix sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You aren’t dragging me down.” He gives Bernadetta a look that stops her from arguing with him. “Stay here.”

She watches as Felix heads towards the car they had been hiding behind. He comes back with his backpack and unpacks a first aid kit. He patches up Bernadetta’s cuts before she fusses at him.

“I can see you got hurt too,” she tells him. It’s pretty hard not to. Felix is sporting quite an ugly black eye and a bloody cut against his cheek.

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, shut up,” she huffs. Felix raises his eyebrows at her, and she smiles a little. “Let me help you, Felix. You can’t do everything yourself. Trust me. I know.”

To her surprise, Felix silently complies, patiently sitting as Bernadetta uses the last of the bandages to neatly patch up Felix’s wounds. There isn’t much they can do for their aching bruises so they’re content to just leave them. They take a second to rest, to catch their breaths after the fight.

They look at the corpses sprawled out before them. One of the bodies is twitching slightly and making these awful huffs and moans from time to time, but other than that, everyone remains dead. The grimy feeling of murder rests on them like the drying blood that had been splattered against their skin. It’s uncomfortable knowing that they each killed two men— _killed_ , _took their lives,_ murdered—but they remind themselves that they were acting in self-defense, that they didn’t truly want to engage in battle, that it was literally a situation of kill or be killed.

After a while, Felix goes to each other bodies and collects useful things off them. He manages to secure a bag of food for Bernadetta to carry around, and he nabs a few more weapons. Other than that, these bandits seemed to be more talk than they were worth. Hardly anything they had was useful, just the weapons and food. They didn’t even have a working flashlight. Bernadetta hears Felix muttering, “Pathetic,” under his breath as he digs through the bag in the same manner that a raccoon digs through the trash in hopes of finding something great.

As much as both of them want to sit and recover, they know that they should probably get going so that they can find a nice, safe spot to stay for the night. However, as they both stumble and sluggishly walk, their wounds all burning and itching and _aching_ , they find a single figure out, walking on the same path as them.

Bernadetta just wants to catch a break. She tightens the grip on her blood-covered knife and looks at Felix grimly. She mentally prepares her mind and her numbing body for another fight, though this would be significantly easier than fighting the four bandits—well, assuming that this person isn’t armed with a gun and that they aren’t some sort of legendary military leader or something.

“Bernie.”

“Yeah?” Bernadetta takes a deep breath.

“That—doesn’t that look like Caspar to you?”

Bernadetta blinks and stares at the figure. He seems to be moving towards them, looking around and waving his flashlight at seemingly random things. When the light on his flashlight flashes over Felix and Bernadetta, who instinctively raise their hands to shield their eyes from the light, they hear a loud gasp.

“Bernadetta?! Is that you?”

Bernadetta gasps too. That booming voice—it could only belong to…

Bernadetta feels tears bubble up to her eyes as she stumbles and limps towards Caspar, who sprints over to her and scoops her up in a tight hug. She yelps in pain when he crushes her and her extremely sore bruised ribs. He holds her at arm’s length.

“Oh man. No way. No way! Lin’s not gonna believe this!” He smiles brightly at Bernadetta. “I’m so glad to see you’re still around!” His smile shrinks a little. “We thought… I thought…” He loosens his hold on Bernadetta and averts his gaze. “I tried to look for you back when the building started to collapse, but I didn’t see you—and you wouldn’t respond when I called for you…”

“It’s—it’s okay! We’re here now, and we’re okay. You said Linhardt is…?”

“He’s with me. We’re okay.” Caspar lets his gaze wander to Felix, who is standing a good bit away, watching cautiously. “Oh, hey! Isn't that Felix?”

Bernadetta nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! He helped me and took me with him.” She gestures at him to come forward, and Felix begrudgingly obeys, slowly taking a few steps forward.

Caspar perks up and walks over to Felix, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Good to see you, man!" He laughs heartily. Felix hisses in pain and swats at him. Caspar seems to think nothing of it.

“Geez, you guys are really beat-up. What happened?”

“Bandits,” Felix replies simply. “Four of them.”

Caspar’s eyes glint a little with what Bernadetta can only describe as his signature child-like excitement. “Four?! And you guys got them all?”

“Of course. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.” Felix rubs his shoulder a little.

“That’s really great! Awesome! I just—it sucks that you guys look all sore and stuff though. We should probably get that checked out.”

Bernadetta shakes her head. “So where’s Linhardt?”

Caspar smiles. “Oh, you won’t believe this. Come on. I’ll show you.” He bounds forwards, like an excited puppy, and Bernadetta walks after him. She pauses when she notices that Felix is still standing where they left him.

“Felix? Aren’t you coming?”

Felix averts his gaze. “I need to get out of here. I need to get to Sylvain.”

“Well, no problem,” Caspar pipes up. “There’s word that we’re getting help soon where I’m staying!”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “How’d you manage that?”

“No idea! It’s just what I heard when I got there. I'll tell you more about it at the camp. Come on."

Felix, intrigued, sighs and follows Caspar and Bernadetta.

Caspar has them walk quite a distance before they enter an valley-like area with a small, isolated settlement. There are a handful of makeshift, beat-up huts made out of everything ranging from reinforced cardboard to spare pieces of metal from cars and refrigerators and all sorts of things. They’re arranged in a circle. As they enter the settlement, Felix and Bernadetta feel eyes boring into them.

“Linhardt!” Caspar yells. “Linhardt, look!”

Out of one of the huts, a familiar green-haired man steps out, tucking his surgical mask underneath his chin with gloved hands. He gives a soft sigh.

“What is it, Caspar? I’m…” He stares at Bernadetta and Felix. “Oh,” he breathes. “Bernadetta. You…”

“I’m here, Linhardt!” she tells him, hurrying over and wrapping him in a tight hug. He hugs her back. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was worrying about you two this whole time!”

“And I’m certainly glad you’re here, Bernadetta. I never thought I’d see you again. It was quite—quite a disturbing thought to have.” The doctor grimaces and pulls away from the hug. He turns his gaze to Felix. “Ah, and Felix?”

“Crazy, right?” Caspar pipes up.

“Small world." Linhardt eyes both Bernadetta and pales a little at the sight of the blood spattered across their clothes. "Well, you two look rather, um, injured. What happened?” As Caspar opens his mouth to speak, Linhardt holds up his hand. “Come into the medical tent. I’m sure that I can attempt to treat you.”

Felix, Bernadetta, and Caspar file into the medical tent, the second largest of the makeshift buildings. It’s dimly lit, and the ceiling hangs a little lower than would be expected, but there’s certainly a lot of room. No one else seems to be in here, safe for one person.

“Felix?!”

Felix raises an eyebrow as a white-haired girl comes forward from the back of the medical tent, pulling her own surgical mask down. “Lysithea? Why are _you_ in Faerghus?” Felix asks.

“I came here to further my research on a new viral strain that was starting to spread in Almyra.” Lysithea crosses her arms and looks at the ground. “I guess I just found the worst time to come, huh? But I’m lucky to have found all of you here.” She looks up at Felix. “It makes me feel a little better that we’re together.”

“Pretty bad time to come,” Felix agrees, earning a small smile from Lysithea. “But it’s good that you’re still alive. And doing what you like, I guess.”

“Caspar! What’s wrong? What happened to you?” Bernadetta yelps.

Felix looks over to where Linhardt, Bernadetta, and Caspar are. Now, in better lighting, Felix can see how Caspar has changed from when he lost saw him—through pictures online. Caspar is much paler with dark bags under his eyes, and he’s clearly lost weight. He looks like a ghost.

“I’m okay!” Caspar insists.

“He’s not,” Lysithea and Linhardt reply in unison, both in the same flat and critical tone.

“He’s sick, but he keeps trying to go out and look for food for our little community,” Linhardt explains exasperatedly. “A lot of people here aren’t able to go out and search for food or resources on their own, be it because of old age, illness, or something else. Hence, why they decided to try and live together.”

“He’s an idiot,” Lysithea continues. “He’s been coughing like he’s caught the plague—” Linhardt shoots her a flat look, but it goes unnoticed. “—but he still insists on being one of our scouts.”

“What? Hey! What about you? You’re sick, too, and you’re still doing things! Why can’t I?”

“Because we’re terribly understaffed here,” Lysithea argues back. “We don’t need to lose one of our more able-bodied members because he was too dumb to listen to the doctors telling him to rest a little.”

“Understaffed?” Felix gives a small scoff. “That sounds like quite the understatement.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me.” Linhardt, in typical Linhardt fashion, lets out a big yawn, stretching his arms out over his head. “I hardly get to have any breaks since I’m always working with people.” He sighs. “We have a lot of people who are sick.”

“Like Caspar,” mutters Lysithea.

“Like Lysithea,” Caspar shoots back.

“Oh, Caspar, Lysithea,” Bernadetta says quietly. “Don’t push yourself if you’re sick!”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Felix mutters under his breath. Bernadetta shoots him a look.

“Anyway.” Lysithea gives their newest visitors a questioning look. “What’s with you guys? Get into a fight or something?”

“Against four people!” Caspar butts in excitedly. “Isn’t that cool?” At Felix’s withering look, Caspar clears his throat. “Well, in theory, it’s cool,” he mumbles, “kicking some bandits’ asses just by yourselves.”

Bernadetta laughs good-naturedly. “It was awful,” she tells him, smiling, “but we made it out here alive, and that’s all that matters!”

While Linhardt and Lysithea check over their wounds and offer to change their bandages, Bernadetta gets permission to live at the settlement, though it seems like it was understood that she was to stay anyway.

“I just thought you were going to stay,” Lysithea admits.

“You’re in no condition to move, and there’s no way that we’re tossing our friend out into the wild,” Linhardt tells her when he sees her astonished expression.

“Yeah!” Caspar beams at her. “You can’t just leave us! We’re all reunited again! Why would we leave you behind, Bernie?”

Bernadetta smiles. “Oh, thank you so much for letting me stay! I promise I’ll do my best in doing my part! I’ll happily help out around here, especially if you need more hands in the med tent here. I have a very basic knowledge of medicine and stuff, but…”

“It’s better than what Caspar has. Which is nothing.” Linhardt suppresses a smile when Caspar gives a small gasp.

“Hey! Who’s the person who helped heal you when you were knocked out cold? This guy! You owe me!”

Linhardt chuckles. “Yes, yes. Okay, dear.”

“Gross,” Lysithea cuts in from where she’s wrapping Bernadetta’s torso in a bandage. She throws one of Bernadetta’s old bandages at Linhardt—to nobody’s surprise, the bandage hardly goes anywhere, but it conveys her message nonetheless. “No flirting in the med tent!”

Linhardt smiles a little, and Caspar’s face turns pink as he huffs.

Felix decides to cut in. “Hey. She’s sick too.”

"It’s not that bad!” Bernadetta is quick to reply, frowning at Felix. “It’s just a little cough. He makes it sound so much worse than it is.”

"Hm. Regardless, it is important that we know this.” Linhardt walks over to a ragged clipboard with a stack of paper, the edges singed, torn, and bent. He takes out a wooden pencil, sharped down into a small nub, and scribbles something on the paper. “We have a lot of people who start off just coughing, and then it seems to get worse,” he informs her. She pales. “We’ll keep an eye on it. Thank you, Felix.”

After Linhardt switches Felix’s bandages out and wraps them a little more comfortably with a touch of some antibiotic medicine on his cuts and scrapes, he slings his heavy backpack over his shoulder, earning him a horrified look from Lysithea and a disapproving grimace from Linhardt.

"Where do you think you’re going?” Lysithea huffs. “You’re still healing!”

"And why would you go out there?!” The face that Bernadetta makes is comically exaggerated, with her eyes wide open and her eyebrows drawn together and up. She gapes at Felix, her mouth opening and shutting, kind of like how a fish out of water would look like. “It’s not safe!” she cries out. “There’s death and starvation and depression out there!”

"Trust me,” deadpans Linhardt, crossing his arms, “you don’t need to go out there to have depression.”

"Not now, Linhardt,” Caspar murmurs, absentmindedly reaching over and sympathetically patting his arm. Linhardt looks unfazed.

“I have to find Sylvain. I’m going to get out of here and be with him if it’s the last thing I do.” Felix shifts his heavy backpack on his shoulders, but the relentless weight continues to bear down on his aching body. His shoulders are sore, and he’s bound to look like a hunchback because of the backpack he bears, but it’s all worth it.

“Stay,” Lysithea demands. “It’s better to stay here. We’d have more mouths to feed, sure, but you’re pretty able-bodied. You could go out with Caspar and some of the others to find food.”

“It’s better here,” Linhardt continues. “If someone attacks, there’s a smaller chance that you’ll die since we have several members who will be fighting alongside you. Plus, free healthcare.”

Felix wants to laugh a little at Linhardt’s jab at the old Faerghus government, but he’s more interested in what Caspar is currently saying.

“One of the members here said that they contacted people to come and pick us up in less than a month. He said he did it right before the power in his area went out,” Caspar claims. “If you stay here and just rough it out for a month or so, you can probably get on and go with us to the Alliance or the Empire.”

Felix pauses. He isn’t quite sure if he should trust what this person said, but Caspar seems quite convinced that this will happen, especially seeing that he had said something similar to it earlier. When he looks at the others, Linhardt and Lysithea both seem to nod along to what Caspar is saying. Even though deep in his heart, he knows that he just wants to be alone—that he doesn’t want to have to worry about protecting people like he did when Bernadetta had taken the first hit for him—he can’t help but be drawn to the idea that there could be a simpler way to get to Sylvain. A safer, less lonely way with friends and other supportive members of this odd community that looks like it’s literally falling apart at the seams.

“Come on, Felix,” Lysithea urges softly, quietly, gently. “Sylvain isn’t going anywhere.”

And Felix gives in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoaaaaa, we're halfway there (?),,,, whoaaaaaaa protect bernie bear!!!!!!
> 
> these past two chapters have been kinda messy skdlfksld


	7. holdin’ my breath ‘til you hold me again (‘til there’s nothing left)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain sees the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the inconsistent updates! Lately, I haven't been feeling very motivated, but I'll do my best to see this story through! 
> 
> I'm not really happy with this chapter, but this chapter gave me the idea to start this fic in the first place so I'm happy to have gotten to write it. I wrote it a little fast though; I hope it doesn't show ;;

_Traveling with this group of bandits definitely has its downs_ , Sylvain bitterly notes to himself as they approach their third day or traveling from Mateus to Itha, _but I’m starting to think that there’s very, very little ups._

He thought this would be a piece of cake. He thought that if he could just put on a face of bravado—the same one that apparently impressed the leader of these bandits—for long enough, they’d think that he’s one of them. They’d give him food, weapons, and lead him to Itha without any trouble. He thought that if he tagged along, he could distract these bandits from harassing others.

And he was wrong.

The brigands in this group doesn’t like him—save for Boss, who thinks he’s hilarious for whatever reason—and they refuse to listen to him. In fact, Sylvain swears that they’re not even headed up towards Itha or Sreng. It feels like they’ve been wandering around aimlessly, stopping occasionally to get a long meal or raid a building for potential resources, which often takes hours with how these oafs seem to find a way to crack crude jokes between each and every step they take. Sylvain doesn’t even get the material benefits out of this group. If he doesn’t find weapons, he doesn’t get one; if he can’t find food, he has to take some out of his own bag and eat.

Really, the only thing that’s keeping him here is Boss—who, for whatever reason, insists that Sylvain use that pseudonym rather than “Marcellus.”

Every time Sylvain expresses impatience or frustration, whether it’s in passing or it’s a small complaint, Boss only laughs and grins at him, telling him that he’s just going to have to learn to be patient. It’s incredibly annoying, but at the very least, Boss prevents the others from killing Sylvain in his sleep.

“Hands off this one,” Boss had said when he first introduced Sylvain to his crew. “He’s my sidekick.” He looks each of his men, narrowing his eyes. “Pick on him all you want—toughen him up—but don’t leave him with anything too debilitating. That’s just a pain to deal with.”

Honestly, it probably would have been better if Boss hadn’t given him such a special status. Sylvain can feel the ire and jealousy radiating off the others. He honestly doesn’t have the time or patience to deal with a Miklan-esque issue right now. He lets the others shoot dirty looks at him, trip him, talk shit about him. He just wants to get to Itha already.

However, Sylvain’s griping must be starting to get on Boss’s nerves too.

“Hey, are we even headed towards Sreng?” Sylvain, with his arms idly tucked behind his head, asks for seemingly the hundredth time tonight. He knows everyone’s tired of hearing it, but he’s just as tired of saying it. “It feels like we’ve been walking for months.”

Surprisingly, he gets a response other than a tired chuckle. “Shut up!” Boss whips around, and Sylvain moves just in time to narrowly dodge a punch aimed directly for his face. “Just shut your stupid fucking mouth already! All you do is complain, you ungrateful little shit,” Boss snarls. “We feed you and give you weapons, and all you do is ask if we’re going anywhere! Of course we are! Do you know how much time it takes to walk from one city to the next?!”

Sylvain straightens his posture and simply raises an eyebrow. "A lot?" he asks, unable to stop himself.

Boss gives a growl of frustration. “You’re just a waste of resources!” This statement seems to earn a few grunts or approval and agreement from the others, spurring Boss on. “Honestly, why did I think it was a good idea to bring a brat like you along with us?” Boss pinches his temples.

Sylvain honestly has nothing to say in his defense. He knew he was provoking Boss, and he knew he was going to get himself into some shit—but he really just can’t stand it here anymore. He thinks he'd rather just fumble around Fodlan until he can find Felix on his own.

Boss gives a huff and takes a step back, his nose upturned. “Worthless, shitty brat!” He points to three of his lackeys. “You three. Get rid of him and take anything useful,” he commands, his voice low. “I don’t want to see this fucker ever again.”

With that, Boss turns sharply on his heel and begins to walk away with a majority of his bandits. The three bandits stand by and circle Sylvain with malicious grins and wicked glares.

“Spoiled bitch,” one of them, a bald man, spits. “Who’s going to protect you now, huh?”

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ll take _good_ care of you,” a masked one answers, making a show of cracking his knuckles, almost cartoonishly. “It’ll hurt lots, but it’ll be lots of fun.”

“You’ll be begging for us to kill you by the time we’re done with you,” the last one chimes in, untying his ratty ponytail and retying it.

Sylvain may or may not have made a mistake.

He’s outnumbered, and he’s underequipped. He knows some of the bandits have guns, but he’s not sure which ones exactly have them and which are only armed with bats or knives. He literally brought a knife to a potential gunfight, and it’s not looking good for him at all.

 _I can’t die here_ , he tells himself. _Felix is waiting for me. I have to survive. I have to make sure Felix is okay. I can’t die without him here with me._

Quickly taking out the dagger given to him from Hubert, Sylvain turns so that his back isn’t facing anyone. The masked man lunged forward and swings at him with a hand axe. Sylvain moves out of the way, but the bald man swings a fist, donning enough rings to basically create a brass knuckle, and manages to catch Sylvain right at his temple.

Sylvain’s ear rings, his head explodes in agony, and his vision shakes a little, but he manages to reach back and sink the dagger into the bald man’s chest, making him howl with pain. Sylvain pulls the dagger from his chest, ignoring the sickening sound of the man collapsing to the ground and choking.

Sylvain feels blood dripping down part of his face, and he’s having trouble standing upright, but he refuses to give in now.

To his left, the man with the ponytail flips a baseball bat in his hand, nonchalant as he takes a few steps forward. To his right, the masked man is starting to reel back with his axe again. Sylvain tightens his grip on his knife and gulps.

Just then, the man with the ponytail rushes at him, reeling back. Sylvain’s eyes flit over to him, and he moves to avoid the bat coming down on his head. The man with the bat misses.

But the axe swings. Sylvain stumbles back a little, crying out as he feels the agony of the dull axe's blade sink into his shoulder and tear into his muscles and flesh. The man with the bat steps forward and bangs the wooden against his ribs. It punches the breath out of Sylvain’s body, and he is thrown to the ground from the force of it.

For a second, he’s unable to move. He stares up at the sky, spots dancing in his vision as he gasps for air. He doesn’t think he’s felt this much pain in his life ever—not when he broke his ankle during a track meet and broke his nose from landing on the pavement, or when Miklan pushed him down into a well or even when his father struck him with a cane for talking back. His left shoulder burns and throbs, and he swears he still hears ringing. And his ribs—he’s probably broken a few.

“Aw, over already?” the masked man teases, sauntering forward. “Thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

Sylvain’s fingers twitch as he curls them around his dagger.

The masked man hums and viciously stomps on Sylvain’s fingers and pries the dagger from his fingers. Sylvain yelps in pain. He twirls the dagger in his hand and crouches over Sylvain, the knife precariously pointed down at his jugular. Sylvain freezes.

The man with the bat comes forward too. “Haden’s dead,” he tells the masked man flatly.

The masked man only shrugs, but he doesn’t move his gaze from Sylvain or the knife pricking the tender skin at his neck. “A shame,” he muses. “Did he have anything on him?” 

“Nah.”

The masked man gives a noncommittal hum and moves the knife, hovering it over the axe wound. Sylvain feels a chill take over his body at the thought of the man cutting up his wounds even more than he already did. The thought of him forcing the blade through tissue that’s hardly holding together and sinking deeper and _deeper_ —Sylvain tenses.

As a last ditch effort, Sylvain quickly draws a fist and swings it, clocking the masked man in the nose with as much strength as he can muster without passing out from the sheer exertion and pain of his body. The masked man’s nose gives a chilling crack, and he gets off of Sylvain, his hands ripping off his mask and hovering around the lower half of his face.

“You—you little shit!” he bellows, his voice nasally and low. He glares at Sylvain, but Sylvain is already too busy defending himself from the other bandit to care.

Sylvain manages to scoop up the dagger the masked man drops, and he assesses the situation. Sylvain’s more concerned about the masked man. He's not scared of a man with a baseball bat; he's scared of a man with an axe. Maybe if he can get his hands on that axe, then…

But, he’s so far, and the other man is so close. Sylvain has to move fast.

Sylvain takes the dagger and turns to the man with the baseball bat, who’s already raising it high over his head like an executioner preparing to drop the axe at the guillotine. Dagger tightly gripped in his fist, Sylvain slams the blade of the dagger through the man’s foot and quickly rips it back out.

His heart beating so hard in his chest that he can feel it in the palms of his hands, Sylvain aims the dagger at the masked man who is storming towards him. He feels his hands shake, but he thinks of Felix—his silky hair, his smooth voice, his little smirk—and his resolve rights his hand, as if his husband is there with him, holding his hand and guiding him.

Sylvain throws the dagger and holds his breath as the blade slips out of his hand.

It’s like everything is in slow motion.

The knife flies through the air. Twirls and twirls and twirls.

And the world finally returns to normal when the blade strikes true, by some work of whatever deity is watching him. The dagger sinks into the masked man’s head with a moist _thud_ , and the bandit staggers, stutters, and sinks to his knees. He collapses to the ground and Sylvain lets out a breath of relief.

“Forgetting someone?”

Sylvain’s gaze jumps to the last bandit, who lunges forward and buries his own dagger in Sylvain’s stomach. Sylvain chokes and gasps. A scorching pain spikes through his body, stemming from his stomach. Sylvain feels dizzy; he feels tired.

“Finally. You’re one stubborn fuck.”

The man pries the gas mask off Sylvain’s face and pulls his backpack off of him. He walks around and collects whatever weapons that he can before limping past Sylvain, who is now lying on the ground, his body getting colder by the second.

 _No,_ Sylvain thinks, trying to push himself up with his good arm. His ribs and his stab wound burn so violently that he nearly vomits. _I can’t die here. No, not yet. Not without Felix. Felix, Felix, Felix._

Sylvain shuts his eyes. He’s so tired, so cold, so weak. Everything hurts, from his physical wounds to the fact that he won’t even get to see Felix before he dies. He won’t get to protect Felix, won’t get to hold him, won’t get to run his hands through his hair or make him smile like the sun or blush like a rose or—

No, it hurts too much to think like this. No, no, no. What a disaster.

He forces his eyes open and finds himself staring up at the sky. Where it would once be a soothing midnight blue, it is now a dreary and lifeless grey. The world is dying, and Sylvain is dying with it, it seems. Even so, he can see the moon just barely peeking through the wall of grey, as if it’s cheering him on—as if it’s trying to say _you’re not alone! I’m here with you!_

Sylvain smiles. He hears that little phrase in a voice that he knows with his heart, with his entire existence.

“Felix,” he whispers out, running a finger over the wedding ring on his left hand “I was such a fool.” It hurts to speak, but he feels like he has to apologize. No one but the moon will hear him, but that’s alright with him. He’s always liked the moon, after all.

He smiles wryly. “I’m not afraid,” he continues, and it’s true. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how calm he actually is. His whole life has always felt like he’s been preparing for his death, and right when those three started to attack him, he knew it was over.

“I’m not afraid,” he repeats, “but I’m so, so sorry, Felix. I couldn’t be with you.”

 _My moon, oh my moon_ , he thinks as the world around him grows darker and darker still. _Where are you?_


	8. i took my time (my time took me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix sees the sun.

The valley settlement, simply named The Valley by the survivors inhabiting it, is quite nice once you get used to the constant fear of catching whatever sickness your neighbor has and the constant crying of infants and miserable mothers. There aren’t many people, but the people who are there seem friendly enough. A good chunk of the population of The Valley seems to be comprised of orphaned children, widows, and old people.

Even so, the people are nice. They look lost and haunted by what they’ve lost, but otherwise, they seem strong and willing to keep their heads up. They’ve been trying to recreate a normal life, fit with kind neighbors who share spare pieces of clothes and food and children who play outside with one another. A few of the people have even tried to create a farm of some sort, though the soil quality is so poor that they haven’t had any success in harvesting any crops. For the most part, they depend on more able-bodied people amongst them to bring in food—like Caspar had been trying to do when he ran into Felix and Bernadetta. They ration what they have and have people go on watch.

And then, there’s Linhardt and Lysithea, who have been working as The Valley’s doctors. They seem quite busy, as a lot of the people there have some sort of ailment. They treat these awful coughs that sound harsh and thick and nausea, but they don’t have very much to work with. What’s worse is that Linhardt suspects that the concentration of the bomb’s radiation is causing most of this.

“It’s expediting the development and reproduction of certain cells, particularly near the respiratory organs,” Linhardt murmurs while he and Lysithea did their best to sterilize their equipment. “But the effects seem to be spreading and affecting other parts of the body as well.”

“Cancer,” Lysithea sums up bluntly, wiping down the metal parts of a beat-up stethoscope with one of their last clean alcohol pads. “We think it’s causing some sort of sudden onset cancer—lung cancer, specifically, but there are a few people here who have issues other than with their respiratory systems so it's hard to tell.”

Bernadetta flicks her gaze down and keeps it trained on the ground. “That’s terrible,” she whispers. “I wish I knew how I could help.”

“You’re doing just fine, Bernadetta,” Linhardt tells her. “We honestly needed another pair of hands around the med tent while Caspar runs out to look for food.”

“But it just doesn’t feel like enough,” Bernadetta protests.

“I’m sure that when we get help, we can get some actual treatment for the sick people,” Caspar pipes up, nudging Bernadetta with his shoulder and flashing her a toothy grin. “We just have to keep waiting! I’m sure that people are doing their best to make their way over here and save people like us.”

 _Awfully optimistic of you_ , Felix thinks, watching as Linhardt and Lysithea share a look of some sort and Caspar cheers Bernadetta up. He sighs and crosses his arms, tapping his finger against his bicep, as if it’ll make time pass faster—as if it’ll bring in rescue planes from safer areas. _I think everyone’s already forgotten survivors exist here in Faerghus._

A small twang of hurt jolts through Felix’s heart.

_Has everyone already forgotten us? Does anyone even care about us?_

Felix closes his eyes, but behind his eyelids, he sees a flash of a familiar red, a cheeky smile, honey colored eyes. He doesn’t care if he’s been forgotten—or, at least, that’s what he’ll keep telling himself—but he just wants his husband to be happy through this all. He doesn’t want Sylvain to fret over him, to do anything stupid, to mourn him like Felix had mourned Glenn. He would never want to do anything to make Sylvain’s sunny expression so stormy and hopeless, so sad and desolate. And he would never want Sylvain to think it’s his fault.

But knowing that idiot, Sylvain’s probably blaming himself for not being here in Faerghus. As if he could have known that a bomb would have dropped and stopped it somehow. Sure, it would have been nice to have Sylvain here, but Felix prefers for Sylvain to stay safe in Leicester.

“Anyway,” Caspar’s loud voice says, drawing Felix from his thoughts. “I’m thinking that I should head out and look for some more resources. You coming with, Felix?”

Just then, Caspar, in the middle of standing up, nearly topples over as a series of horrible coughs start to wrack through his body. Linhardt practically springs up to grab Caspar by the shoulders and steady him. If this were just some ordinary circumstance, Felix would probably joke that it’s the fastest he’s ever seen the ever-sluggish, sleep-ridden Linhardt move—but something sinister lurks beneath the surface of this sickness in Caspar. It doesn’t feel right for any light-hearted jokes at all.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Linhardt tells Caspar firmly, lugging him towards one of the little makeshift cots and sitting him down.

“Linhardt,” Caspar protests, trying to stand back up only to get forced back onto the cot by Linhardt, “if I don’t go, then we won’t have enough food for everyone.”

“You’re _not_ going,” Linhardt repeats, a firm crease forming between his eyebrows, above his ever-tired eyes. “You’re too sick to go, and if you keep exposing yourself to the outdoors and exerting your energy, you’re going to get worse—and how can you help anyone if you’re too weak to move?”

Caspar clicks his tongue and averts his gaze from Linhardt, looking like a sulking child. “I can’t just sit here.” Caspar shakes his head. “That’s just not even an option. I can’t let myself be useless. Not now.”

"You’re not being useless. You’re recovering from a cold.” Linhardt, as he always does when he mentions Caspar’s condition, pointedly ignores the pitying looks from Lysithea and Bernadetta. “If you’re feeling useless, you can help Lysithea, Bernadetta, and me clean the med tent a little more.”

“But the food—”

“I’m still here,” Felix cuts in, pushing himself off the wall and standing upright. He frowns. “I'll get some. Caspar, it’s best if you stay. I’m more than capable of searching on my own.”

Caspar protests and argues back for a while, but in the end, Lysithea, Linhardt, and Bernadetta convince him to stay and ask Felix if he’d go on his own to try and procure some more supplies for The Valley. Felix, with a curt nod and his bag hanging off his shoulder, leaves The Valley.

In the days that he’s been here with Caspar—and occasionally Bernadetta or Lysithea depending on how many people decide to visit the med tent—he’s found that having company really does make the trips more bearable. Caspar’s always ready to chat his ear off about anything and everything, and though Felix doesn’t really feel like he always has the energy to match, he’s always willing to listen to Caspar blab on and on while they look. It’s a nice distraction, walking around with someone and talking like the world isn’t literally corroding around you. Plus, if they were ever to get attacked, Felix knows how important having an ally is, seeing as his last run-in with bandits would have ended with him dead had it not been for Bernadetta.

Walking around alone now just feels eerie, like something is missing. Like something is lurking about in the musty fog lingering in the air, waiting to strike now that Felix is alone and vulnerable. No, he’s not vulnerable. He’d never admit that. He’s just alone and wary.

The world is dead silent and dreary as ever. Felix walks the paths that he and Caspar normally patrol and strays a little, hoping that he’ll walk far enough to find the ruins of some poor Faerghan city. He walks in silence, and his anxious mind is quick to fill him with thoughts. He thinks of all the possible bad scenarios his negative little mind can conjure up, ranging from a surprise attack at The Valley that leaves everyone dead or gravely injured to another bomb dropping while he’s out in the open. Then, feeling thoroughly bummed out, he focuses his thoughts on the here and now, keeping an eye and an ear out for anything seemingly out of place.

His mind drifts again, but his brain instead unhelpfully supplies him with some of the songs that Annette would sing while she was alone, doing her own chores or her homework back at school. The melody burrows itself deep in his mind, and though it’s kind of frustrating that he’s thinking of creepity creeps and yummy cakes instead of his task at hand, he’s a little relieved to have something pleasant to think about.

The songs prove to be a bit too much of a distraction.

Felix just about walks directly into some haggard man, limping around and using a metal bat as a cane. The man stops in his tracks and watches Felix, his posture tense.

“Ugh, another straggler,” he mutters. The man tightens his grip on his bat, and Felix assumes a defensive stance of his own, hand quickly going for the sword fastened at his belt.

“I’m not looking for a fight,” he tells the man, though he knows that it’s unlikely for him to listen. “I’m just looking for the nearest city.”

“I don’t care,” the man snaps. Felix watches as the man’s eyes scan him through the eyeholes of the gas mask he’s wearing, a quick up-and-down. “Oh? Hey, that’s a pretty nice sword you got there,” he says slowly.

Felix doesn’t let his focus fade, not in the slightest. He keeps his own attention on the man and finds his gaze lingering on the giant backpack on the stranger’s back. Something about it screams familiarity at him, but he isn’t quite able to place why he recognizes that bag.

“Bah, I don’t have time for this. I’ve already gotten myself into some trouble,” the man mutters to himself. He fixes Felix with a glare. “I’ll fuck off if you leave me alone too.”

Felix shrugs. “Like I said, I’m not interested in a fight.”

The man scoffs and starts to shuffle away. But then, a soft, plastic clinking draws Felix’s attention to the man’s backpack. Then, he sees it. Felix finally recognizes that backpack.

It’s got Sylvain’s initials, in big, blue lettering, clumsily sewn onto the front. It’s Felix’s own work—an attempt at learning how to sew from Mercedes on a bag he bought for Sylvain so they could hike together. And dangling from one of the zippers is a keychain with a photo of them together from an amusement park, the photo encased in plastic. It’s unmistakably Sylvain’s bag.

But what is it doing out here? And why does this man have it?

Could it be that this person is Sylvain? Felix quickly dispels that thought. If this were Sylvain, he would have recognized those sweet, honey-colored eyes and that silvery voice. This isn’t Sylvain. So why does he have Sylvain’s things?

“Hey!” Felix shouts at the man, and he rushes in front of the man, blocking him from going forward. The man glares at him. “That bag—where’d you get it?” His words come out angrier and breathier than he would have liked, but his mind is already giving him the most catastrophic ideas—that Sylvain was stupid enough to leave Leicester, that Sylvain came here, that Sylvain got duped or _killed_ by this man—and his heart is beating out of his chest. His hands, balled up into tight fists at his sides, start to tremble.

The man nonchalantly shrugs. “Got it off some loser,” he says, his voice tinted with malice. “He wasn’t going to use it. He was dead.”

In that instant, Felix sees nothing but red, and he doesn’t realize that he’s gotten himself into a fight until he’s swinging his sword straight through the stranger’s torso. The man doesn’t even have time to react before he gives a garbled scream and starts to collapse and curl in on himself. Felix just isn’t satisfied, and his arm keeps moving. His chest heaves as he repeatedly stabs the man and mutilates him before falling to his knees.

His body is cold and numb, and all he can do is shakily reach over to grab Sylvain’s backpack. He pulls it off the man’s body, carelessly tossing the corpse aside, and holding the bag to his chest. His heart has sunk into the deepest depths of his body; his chest feels devoid of life. _He_ feels devoid of life. He clings to the bag and traces the embroidered letters with his finger.

 _Sylvain’s dead_ , he tells himself. It doesn’t feel real. No matter how many times he tells himself that Sylvain’s dead, he just can’t react, just can’t fathom this being true. It’s just such a painful and surreal thought, the thought that the one Felix loved the most being dead in a wasteland he wasn’t even supposed to be anywhere near. Felix is just so dumbstruck. _Sylvain’s dead. He’s here in Faerghus, and someone killed him._

But the longer he sits there, holding onto Sylvain’s backpack, the more he slowly starts to realize that this is reality. Tears sting Felix’s eyes as he looks down at the keychain, where there’s a picture of Sylvain pressing a kiss against Felix’s cheek while Felix wears a soft smile with fondness in his eyes. This is real. That picture is just a cruel mockery, a reminder that Felix has just lost someone he’s valued more than he’s ever valued anything or anyone else—even his own blood relatives.

Felix lets out a wretched scream before he even knows it. His voice is unrecognizable to him. It’s raw; it’s hoarse; it’s pulled taut but thick with hundreds of emotions. His throat burns.

He falls into a slump over the bag, his tear-streaked face buried against the bag. It just hurts all that much more when Felix can just catch the slightest hint of Sylvain’s cologne lingering on the backpack. Felix grits his teeth, but he does nothing to stop the tears falling from his eyes or the void forming in his chest.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been mourning Sylvain, but at some point, he’s collected his belongings and Sylvain’s belongings and started shakily wandering around.

 _If he died out here,_ Felix reasons as sobs of frustration and desperation and _despair_ wrack his body, _then there’s gotta be a corpse around here somewhere. I need to see him. At least once. Give him a proper funeral._

Just the thought of having to bury Sylvain’s lifeless body is so gut-wrenchingly painful that Felix is almost winded, is almost thrown back down to the ground in a pathetic pile. Felix forces himself ignore the stab of pain through his chest, a pain so potent it seems to go straight through to his stomach, and he forces himself to stagger forward.

His brain is a mantra of _SylvainSylvainSylvain_ on loop; his heart feels like it’s been dropped into the deepest canyon in Fodlan. His legs and arms ache, and his back hurts from carrying Sylvain’s belongings along with his own. But he trudges on, a flashlight in his hand as he scans the desolate land for a redhead.

He finds nothing. He isn’t sure how much time passes, but it feels like years. Years of walking in silence save for the buzz of white noise and Sylvain’s name in his head. Years of walking with every step a painful reminder that he’s alive and Sylvain’s _not_ and that he’s the reason why Sylvain had died in the first place. Felix grows weaker and wearier still, but continues on.

Just as he thinks he’s lost hope, he sees the slightest glint of gold. Then, as he comes a little closer, a pale hand that the ring sits on. Felix almost drops everything he’s holding as he impulsively runs over. He isn't entirely sure if this is even Sylvain, but he can't help the way that his heart jumps in his chest.

But there he is—Sylvain Jose Gautier-Fraldarius. His eyes are shut, he’s bleeding from several different parts of his body, and he’s covered in dirt and all sorts of muck, from his head to his toes, but he’s there. And what’s more: Felix thinks he sees the slightest rise and fall to Sylvain’s chest.

“Sylvain,” comes his hoarse voice, a pitiful and strangled sound. “Sylvain, Sylvain, please! Sylvain!”

As if by some miracle of the gods, Sylvain’s brows furrow, and his eyelids twitch. When Felix sees the soft honey-brown of Sylvain’s eyes, he feels tears of relief sting his eyes. He can’t bring himself to say anything. He can’t even be sure he’s not having some grief-induced hallucinations. But he doesn’t care. If this is a hallucination, it’s something that he certainly wanted to see.

Felix throws himself over Sylvain, clinging to him tightly.

“Felix?”

“Sylvain, you—you…” Felix forces down a sob. “You’re alive?”

Sylvain coughs out a laugh, but Felix feels how Sylvain’s body tenses as he recoils. Felix, though every bone in his body cries out to keep holding Sylvain, gets up off him and instead settles for gripping one of Sylvain’s hands. Felix rubs his thumb over Sylvain’s ring.

“I don’t think I am,” Sylvain jokes, all smiles despite his condition. “I think I’m dead. I mean, I’m staring at an angel right now, aren’t I?” Sylvain even has the gall to wink at him.

Felix tightly crushes Sylvain’s hand in his, glaring at him. “Don’t fucking play with me, Sylvain! I thought—I thought…” Red, hot tears of frustration starts to sting at his eyes. “I thought you were dead, you shithead!” Felix snaps at him. He feels himself curl in on himself like a child, his shoulders rising to meet his ears while he holds his arms and pulls his knees in. “I thought you were dead, Sylvain,” he repeats. “And I-I didn’t know what to do with myself without you.”

Sylvain reaches up and cups Felix’s face with his hand. Felix tries his best to ignore how cold Sylvain’s hands are, but it’s hard to. Felix nuzzles into Sylvain’s hand, letting his thumb gently wipe away the tears dripping down his cheeks. Sylvain sits up slowly, wincing in pain, but he manages to sit up enough to reach out and pulls Felix into a small hug, pointedly using just one of his arms.

"Sorry,” Sylvain responds quietly, and Felix can’t help but to think that his voice sounds too tired and soft for his liking. “I just didn’t want to see you cry.” He laughs a little, but it sounds pained. “Guess it didn’t work, huh?”

Felix sighs but wraps his arms around Sylvain gently, trying not to bother the wounds he can see. “Why are you even here?” His words are hot and pointed, but his tone is soft, careful, sorrowful.

"I wanted to look for you.”

Felix gives another frustrated sigh. “You—you _idiot!_ Why couldn’t you just stay over there? It’s safer there.”

"I didn’t want to just abandon you and make you live through this alone.” Sylvain takes a second to take in a ragged breath. “I couldn’t even make sure you were still alive from over there.”

Felix sits in silence, staring at Sylvain. His heart hurts, thinking of all the trouble that his husband went through to try and find him, but at the same time, he can’t help but to feel a small sense of fondness and warmth. Sylvain had risked his life to look for Felix.

 _Why can’t you be selfish for once in your life_? Felix wants to say. _Why can’t you just value yourself a little more? Love yourself just a little more?_

"Sylvain,” Felix says instead, but he says nothing more. He can’t bring himself to give Sylvain a proper scolding. Especially when Sylvain looks like he’s a few seconds away from going unconscious.

Felix now focuses on looking through his and Sylvain’s bags for anything that could help keep Sylvain alive. Felix’s bag doesn’t have his first aid kit anymore—he offered it to Linhardt so he could treat others who needed it. Sylvain’s bag, though, does have a first aid kit. Felix quickly fishes it out of the bag and starts to try and treat Sylvain’s wounds, wrapping his shoulder in a bandage and applying slight pressure to Sylvain’s stomach. It seems that Sylvain had been trying to do that himself for a bit so Felix thinks that a little more pressure to stop him from bleeding out might help.

Sylvain hisses out a curse under his breath.

“I know,” Felix says quietly, using one hand to reach up and card through Sylvain’s dirtied red locks of hair. “Just bear it for a little longer.”

When Felix is done wrapping Sylvain’s wounds in bandages, he stands.

“Do you think you can walk?”

Felix immediately wishes he hadn’t said that when he sees Sylvain, teeth gritted, staggering to his feet, huffing and trembling in agony. But when Felix tries to gives Sylvain a hand, Sylvain brushes him off and takes a few steps forward.

“Where are we going?”

Felix scowls. “No. You’re too weak. Come here. I’ll carry you.”

Sylvain smiles at him, though it’s strained. “Oh, my hero! So thoughtful of you.” Sylvain makes no move to let Felix carry him, instead taking a few more, shaky steps and nearly toppling over. “I’m fine,” he insists.

“Shut up.” Felix rearranges his and Sylvain’s belongings, taking out any unnecessary items so that he can put his bag, smaller and emptier, inside Sylvain’s. Then, he pulls the bag on and forces Sylvain to stop, pulling him into his arms and slowly standing. He adjusts his hold on Sylvain and makes sure that he’s comfortable before walking towards The Valley.

“I forget how strong you are sometimes,” Sylvain jokes, hooking his good arm over Felix’s shoulder for stability. He leans his head in against the nook between Felix’s neck and shoulder.

Felix gives a noncommittal grunt. “You overpack,” he says, changing the subject.

"Hey, what can I say? Old habits die hard,” Sylvain muses in response. He gives a small sigh, and Felix feels his eyelashes flutter against his skin.

Felix ignores the uncomfortable feeling of dread welling up in his stomach. “Hey.” He looks down at Sylvain. “Stay with me.”

"Tired.”

“I know. Hang in there.” _Don’t leave me alone_ , he wants to say. _Please don’t leave me alone._

“Tired,” Sylvain repeats, voice ragged and low.

Felix walks a little faster, trying not to jostle Sylvain too much. Sylvain needs actual medical attention, not Felix’s shoddy first aid. Sylvain’s wounds look terrible, and who knows how many more wounds he’s hiding? Felix tries to calm his anxious heart, instead focusing on the fact that Sylvain’s with him, in his arms, still clinging to life.

“Stay with me,” Felix repeats.

“I’m here.” Sylvain presses a small kiss against Felix’s neck. “’m here.” His voice is small, like the last wisps of flame on a candle, about to fade away but flickering in place.

The rest of the walk is painful. It feels like he’s been walking on a treadmill, covering no actual distance while moving as fast as he can with a dying man in his arms— _no_ , Felix admonishes himself, _Sylvain isn’t dying, just recovering_. It doesn’t help that Sylvain doesn’t say anything else, even when Felix prompts him to speak. The silence freaks Felix out, and all he can do is press a hand against Sylvain’s chest and sigh in relief when he feels the weak heartbeat thrumming against his fingers.

“I really took my time finding you,” Felix murmurs to himself. “I’m sorry.”

 _If I had been even a few minutes later_ , Felix thinks and shudders. He doesn’t even want to entertain that thought.

But even covered in dirt and grime and his own blood, even with skin cold and pale, even with the dark bags under his eyes and his now thinner frame, Felix can’t help but to think that Sylvain looks unfairly beautiful. His beauty breaks the bleak atmosphere around him and soothes Felix, knowing that Sylvain is here with him. The world almost looks a shade or two brighter with Sylvain around.

 _Like the sun has returned_ , Felix thinks to himself. _My sun. The light of my life._

Embarrassed at such cheesy thoughts, Felix pushes his hopelessly romantic imagery out of his head and focuses on navigating the wastelands. When he sees The Valley, Felix kicks up his pace a little more.

“Linhardt!” he shouts. “Lysithea! Bernie! Someone help!”

The three practically burst out of the med tent at the sounds of their name from Felix's frantic shouting, their eyes wide with shock. They balk at Felix.

“Wait! Is that Sylvain?” Bernadetta asks meekly as Felix nears them. “Is he okay?”

“I thought you said Sylvain wasn’t in Faerghus,” Lysithea says, her expression dark and stormy. “What’s he doing here?”

Linhardt stares down at Sylvain, eyebrows furrowed. “Hmm. Hate to say it, but he doesn’t look like he’s doing too hot.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Felix snaps. At Linhardt’s raised eyebrow, Felix averts his gaze. “Sorry. I—sorry. I’m on edge.” He forces down any hostility and frustration. “Please, just help him.”

Linhardt shakes his head. “No worries.” He gestures towards the tent. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Felix gently sets Sylvain on a cot, ignoring the wide-eyed looks from Caspar and the other patients in the med tent. He can’t help how his fingers graze Sylvain’s skin, how his eyes linger on Sylvain’s peaceful face. But he sets Sylvain down and gets out of the way.

Linhardt, Lysithea, and Bernadetta get to work, grabbing the first aid that Felix offers from Sylvain’s backpack. As much as Felix wants to help, he doesn’t think he’d know what to do. And his anxiousness would probably drag out his snappy, angry dog-like personality. He stands outside the med tent, pacing back and forth. He can’t bear to see them work on Sylvain, can’t bear to hear anything the three medics might have to say about Sylvain’s condition.

Caspar peeks his head outside of the tent. “Hey, are you good?” When he doesn’t reply, he approaches Felix and sets a hand on his shoulder.

Felix shoots him a fiery look as he swats Caspar’s hand off him, and Caspar shuts up pretty quickly, looking like a dog with his ears pressed against his head and his tail tucked between his legs.

“Well, I just wanted to check up on you,” Caspar says quietly. After a slight pause, he continues, “Did you manage to find any food?”

Felix blinks. “Oh. I… No.” He averts his gaze. “Sorry. I saw Sylvain and I…”

"It’s fine.” Caspar smiles at him. “Do you want to try and go look for some with me now?”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Linhardt can’t stop me if he’s distracted by Sylvain.”

“Caspar.”

“Come on! We need food for everyone. Plus, it’d be a good way to get your mind off Sylvain.” Caspar is tugging on a jacket. “We don’t need to look for too long. I think I remember where I saw some people hanging out once. I think they were stashing their food there, but they haven’t been there in a hot minute.”

Felix sighs, but he complies, following Caspar out of The Valley.

-

Felix and Caspar are able to grab a handful of canned goods. It isn’t much, but given how Caspar is practically coughing up a lung every minute or so and how Felix’s mind and heart are stuck back at the med tent with his husband, it’s the best that they could do. They put the food they found in their storage hut.

However, even though Felix and Caspar have been gone for maybe two hours at most, there hasn’t been any word on Sylvain’s condition. In fact, Felix doesn’t get any word from the three medics, even after residents of The Valley got together to eat. Felix doesn’t eat anything himself, too worried sick to have an appetite, but he also notices that Bernadetta, Lysithea, and Linhardt are missing from dinner, presumably still working on healing Sylvain. He does note that Caspar take them some food, which eases his guilt of making them work so hard.

He sits outside the med tent, dread coiling around his heart. It’s late at night, and there’s nothing but the fire in the center of The Valley lighting the darkness surrounding them. A few of the other residents have headed to bed, though a few of the children are poking around the fire and someone is keeping watch over the settlement.

“Felix.”

Felix’s attention snaps over to where Lysithea is stepping out of the med tent. She has her hair up in a ponytail, and her gloves are covered in blood. Felix feels his blood run cold at the sight of so much blood, but he calms himself down. He can’t just assume the worst.

“Lysithea.” He stands and heads over to her.

She takes off her gloves and tucks them in her pocket. She gives Felix a tired smile. “Sylvain should be fine. I think we patched up the worst of it, but there’s still some things we need to heal. He’s definitely going to need some time to heal, though.”

Felix lets out a breath that he hadn’t known he had been holding. “Thank you. All of you.” He gives her a shaky smile, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest.

"Of course. We're all just happy that he's alright now. We were worried about him too, you know." Lysithea grins at him. “Do you want to come and see him? I’m sure that it might ease a bit of your worries.”

Felix nods and follows Lysithea into the med tent.

The tent is more of a mess than usual, but it probably doesn’t help that Linhardt has fallen asleep on the ground, holding onto an unopened can of peaches, with Caspar lying on the ground beside him and snoring loudly. Bernadetta is quietly clearing up the mess by herself, but she stops to smile at Felix when she sees him enter.

“Gods, get _up_ , Linhardt.” Lysithea walks over and prods at him with her shoe. He grumbles in his sleep, swatting at her. “Up and off the ground, doctor. Up. Get _up_!” Lysithea huffs. “At least sleep on one of the cots. This is just unsanitary.”

Caspar, having been awakened by the noise, wipes his eyes and picks up Linhardt, tossing him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing at all. “Goodnight, ‘sithea.” he mumbles, dropping Linhardt on a cot and flopping down beside him.

"Those two, I swear…” Lysithea shakes her head and looks over at Felix. “Well? Didn’t you want to see Sylvain?” She gestures at a cot in the back of the tent.

When Felix makes his way over to Sylvain, a wave of relief washes over him when he sees Sylvain’s chest slowly rising and falling. Felix squeezes Sylvain’s hand and brushes his hair out of his face. Sylvain’s head, torso, and shoulder are wrapped in a bunch of bandages, but they look much more stable and well-done than what Felix had tried to do. Felix sits beside the cot, holding Sylvain’s hand. He feels like if he stops touching Sylvain, he’ll just disappear, fading away like a fever dream. Felix shuts his eyes and lets out a small sigh, resting his head against the side of the cot.

Even though he’s upset that Sylvain left the safety of Leicester just for him, he’s just happy that Sylvain’s alive and with him. It feels like the gods had pitied his horrible predicament and sent him an angel to brighten his days. Now that Sylvain’s here, Felix feels invigorated to keep doing his best for his friends and survive through this terrible nightmare. And he’s going to protect Sylvain with all that he’s got.


End file.
